


Swan Song

by seiyuna



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Idols, Dating Scandal, Eventual Smut, Idol Kuroro, M/M, Slow Burn, Social Media, Solo Artist Kurapika, kuroro-oito sibling theory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-20 03:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13137813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seiyuna/pseuds/seiyuna
Summary: Kurapika spends too much time dancing in the shadows, mirroring the moves of someone he'd rather be, and waiting for the day he can return to the music scene.Kuroro has a reputation of charming the world with the way he creates music, stealing hearts instead of precious jewels. He looks for someone every time he performs and hopes his muse will find him too captivating to stay hidden.At a concert, their eyes meet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much @e3echo for [this lovely fanart](http://e3echo.tumblr.com/post/171632066995/kurapika-mourning-ep-so-i-guess-i-just-think)! Please do check it out!

 

  

I will play the swan,

and die in music.

— _Othello_ , Act V, Scene II

 

 

 

 

Kurapika kicks off his shoes and bares his feet on the lacquered wooden floor. His jacket drops into a wrinkled pile next to his shoes, and it’s getting easier now, how all he needs to do is give a light tug on his clothes and they’ll fall right off. Too many days have been spent brooding in his room, thinking of all the group lineups he’s been placed in only to be replaced; penning lyrics for songs that people will never hear; and reading through online articles about his disappearance from the industry.

Chairman Nostrade calls it a hiatus, and he knows that a prolonged break is just a polite way of saying that he isn’t meant to return. His reflection surrounds him in the empty studio, and all he remembers are the times he remained after dance practice to perfect choreography for his next music video, of nights too long and muscles strained beyond repair. Within the confines of this room, he has seen people fail their training period and leave without their dreams realized, has seen people who make it extinguish under the limelight.

And there are people like Kurapika who are in between.

There’s nothing he wouldn’t endure for the sake of his dream. He needs to stop thinking so much and start _doing_ , and it starts with a new video from the Genei Ryodan. His manager sends him messages with their videos from time to time, and he likes to take parts of their self-choreographed routines and rearrange them for practice, making them his own.

He watches their latest performance from his phone screen, analyzes their movements with a critical eye, and finds that his attention is always drawn to Kuroro first. It’s not because Kuroro is a better singer or a better dancer than him. He isn’t.

It’s easy to see how Kuroro finds freedom in music in a way that Kurapika has never found in anything, how he has an entire group to support him, and the jealousy of that sears into his heart, something less like envy and more like heartache.

But the performance helps Kurapika remember what it’s like to be on stage again. He connects his phone to the speakers and surrenders himself to the maelstrom of their music. It’s different from the times he practiced alone without turning the lights on, stepped around the long shadows cast by his movements, and reveled in the intimacy of listening to music through a pair of earbuds. He can see his reflection now, can feel the rhythm sink deep into his bones. His feet take control of his body and the impact of his landing makes the slightest sound before taking off again, weightless this time.

He dances until his skin burns and his muscles ache, as if they need to be mended and stitched back where they belong. Sweat glistens his face, runs down his chin, and pools at his collarbone. He has no intention of stopping.

But the music stops.

Kurapika stumbles.

His body is trembling, though he isn’t sure if it’s from adrenaline or exertion. He flicks his bangs out of his eyes to look up at the mirrored wall, catching his manager’s frown in the reflection.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” Leorio looks at him with incredulity in the lift of his eyebrows. “Why?”

Kurapika allows himself to breathe. “I had to.”

It's a little too honest, too unthinking to be said aloud. But if he doesn’t continue with music, pushing himself as hard as he can, he doesn’t know what he _can_ do.

“I’m not having any of that.” Rather than being upset, Leorio’s already picking up his jacket and shoes and offering them out to him. His kindness is too much for Kurapika’s heart after years of being carved out. “I’m taking you out tonight!”

 

 

  

 

“You planned this,” Kurapika says in disbelief.

“I had to,” Leorio echoes. “You haven’t left your apartment in _days_ , so I was coming to get you anyway. Imagine how I felt when you weren’t even there.”

Kurapika tries to speak, but Leorio likes to talk over people when he’s giving a lecture. 

“Then the light was on in the studio and—” Leorio shakes his head. “I honestly can’t believe you.”

“I can’t believe that you’ve already paid for everything.” Kurapika gestures to Leorio’s new change of clothing. “Was this really necessary?”

“Absolutely,” Leorio declares. A robe drapes his shoulders bearing the mark of the Spider while a white headband binds his forehead with the names of all the members. He’s gone above and beyond to prepare for this concert, and Kurapika’s still having trouble making sense of it all.

A security guard leads them to a reserved area at the front row, right beneath the stage. Kurapika has never been inside a venue of this capacity and the stands and floor area are filling up behind them. Fans mill around in anticipation and there’s a sense of urgency, a desperate need to finally see the idols they’ve been following for years.

Being surrounded by so many people makes him uncomfortable, but he quickly forgets when the LED screen plays a recording of the Ryodan’s most recent music program broadcast. The show hasn’t even started yet, but the appearance of Kuroro giving an interview heightens screams to a fever pitch. He speaks on behalf of the members, playing his part as their proper leader.

One of the reporters hands him a microphone. “What was your inspiration for this album?”

“I had a rather captivating encounter that inspired our lyrics.” Kuroro gives a smile and plays nice with the media. It’s rare for him to give rather than take, when all he does is steal hearts without saying much in return. “I hope my muse will find our music just as inspiring and that I will be able to find them again soon.”

They’re pretty words, even for someone who writes and composes his own songs, and Kurapika doesn’t think much of them.

 

  
  
 

  

In an ocean of lights, their eyes meet.

Kurapika’s only one person surrounded by thousands of screaming fans, and yet—dark eyes, dark as obsidian, pin him to where he stands. This moment where Kuroro bathes in the flux of bright lights, delivering his verses in a smooth tone, looks just like the image that’s been at the forefront of his mind for months. Kurapika wonders how he must look, still and quiet, amidst a sea of adoring women.

An effortless smirk is thrown his way in acknowledgment, and Kurapika’s heart stumbles over its next beat before the world around him resumes. Just before Kuroro breaks eye contact, rapid clicks of the shutter resound in his ears over the screaming around him.

“Did you see that?” Leorio shouts into his ear. He throws his arms around Kurapika and shakes him for emphasis, on the verge of breaking down. “He looked at me!”

“Uh,” Kurapika manages to say. An arena full of fans screaming _Kuroro_ and _Shal_ and _Paku_ isn’t the best place to have a conversation. He lets Leorio have his moment, when so many fans are vying for the attention of their favorite members to the point that they would throw their undergarments on stage.

“I caught it on camera!”

Leorio waves his camera with a dramatic flourish, and Kurapika can’t help but wonder about the expensive equipment that all these fans possess. A heavy camera in one hand and a pearl violet lightstick in the other, they’re all prepared to make their idols turn their eyes to them. Something like this couldn’t possibly be captured, not in a photo, where it would never quite live up to the real thing.

Kurapika doesn’t bother thinking it over as he melts into the swell of the crowd, basks in the chaos of the performance. Kuroro moves to the other side of the stage to join his members, his fur coat trailing with the cadence of his steps. Only a microphone in his hands and without even pausing for breath, Kuroro plunges headfirst into the atmosphere that seems to fuel a fire inside him, burning him brighter. Even when he’s dressed in that ridiculous stage outfit, his voice gives rise to many, rousing a chant of his name throughout the arena.

Kuroro responds by dragging his shirt from the hem up, revealing an expanse of skin inked with rebellion, intensifying the enthusiasm of the audience. He is nothing short of _captivating_ and Kurapika can’t bring himself to look away.

But Kuroro’s not the only one who carries the performance. With all of their members present, the Genei Ryodan is so much larger than life. The times when Kurapika has watched them on phone and television screens, has stared at digital billboards in the heart of the city can’t even compare, surrounded by whispers on the streets and admiration from bustling crowds, schoolgirls and businessmen alike.

Kuroro brings his group altogether, refusing to compromise their individuality for a success that only a manufactured artist could afford. It is this ardent love for performing, this fierce dedication to staying true to who they are, that they can own the stage and set it ablaze. Seeing them together is even more stunning than Kurapika could have ever envisioned.

In the sweltering air of the venue, through the spiraling crescendo of cheers, Kurapika can’t remember the last time he’s felt this alive.

 

 

 

  

Leorio sighs like he’s in love.

“Gross,” Kurapika deadpans.

While fans are leaving the arena, Leorio lingers at the barricade right beneath the stage, still in awe from the concert. He’s typically a happy guy, only now he’s stupidly happy. “Don’t tell me that you weren’t the slightest bit impressed.”

“The show was fine.” Kurapika tips the brim of his baseball cap downward and adjusts his face mask. _Fine_ is an understatement when the intensity of their music is still pulsating in his eardrums, but the soreness in his muscles can’t be ignored after being pressed against the barricade the entire time. Having the best view for the show was undoubtedly both a blessing and a curse.

Leorio sends him a sly grin. “Better than watching videos, right?”

Kurapika turns away.

“Are we going to your autograph signing or what?”

That draws Leorio back to reality and he follows. They move into another hall where the autograph session is reserved for only VIP fans. Kurapika truly didn’t want to attend, but it would have been a waste of tickets if he refused Leorio.

The fans around them have the brightest smiles on their faces, speaking animatedly about how everything and everyone is a blur, about their favorite moments of the night. Despite that they’re standing towards the end of the line, several fans look back to steal glances before whispering to their peers. It’s difficult not to stand out, given the fact that they’re the only men surrounded by female fans. But they’re probably still irked that someone with Leorio’s height blocked the view of so many fans.

Leorio lets out a whistle. “I’m glad you came with me tonight.”

“Not like I had a choice.” What Kurapika feels is indescribable, too complex to be translated into words, how he was able to actually be _there._ It hurts his pride to admit that he didn’t spend time scrutinizing their choreography and searching for mistakes; instead, he let himself enjoy the performances like they were meant to be. There’s a small smile hidden beneath his mask and perhaps, he’s glad that he came too. “I didn’t expect you to be this big of a fan.”

“Are you kidding me,” Leorio says in a hush. “The fanclub’s going to pay big bucks for a photobook of these pictures.”

“I should have known,” Kurapika groans. It doesn’t come as a surprise that he’s so invested in profiting off fans, and it wouldn’t be unexpected if he ended up auctioning off the autographed merchandise. “I guess I’ve never seen you look like that when you watch me perform.”

“Don’t forget that I’m your biggest fan.” Leorio puts his arm around Kurapika’s shoulder and offers a bright grin. “But I’m allowed to like other idols too, you know? I don’t think I could ever live like one of those hardcore fans dedicated to one group.”

Ironically, Leorio looks more like a fan than anyone else in the room. Kurapika’s outfit was meant to avoid recognition from onlookers, but apparently Leorio didn’t get the memo. Perhaps that is why they have continued to garner attention around them, curious eyes and hushed whispers.

Leorio turns around when a hand taps him on the shoulder. One of the girls, carrying an LED sign with Kuroro’s name on it, shyly asks him who his favorite Ryodan member is.

“Kuroro,” Leorio answers without missing a beat. There’s a bright gleam in the girl’s eyes, a kind that speaks of kinship. “He’s a man among men!”

Leorio lets go of him to engage her in conversation, singing endless praise of charisma and natural-born talent, and he can’t help but feel a little betrayed when Leorio’s _his_ manager. It’s something that he would never expect to feel, but also a reminder that he should never take Leorio for granted. The Ryodan are well-deserving of love, so he can’t exactly blame him.

As Kurapika lets the line carry him, he peers at the other girls waiting in front of them. Looking at their heels makes him wince when he’s in pain only from wearing comfortable sneakers. Numerous gift bags hang from their arms, filled with fan letters and expensive products. Even with his excellent memory, there are times when Kurapika can’t remember his own fans, regardless of how pretty they look or what gifts they bring, so he can’t imagine the members always doing so either.

A woman flushes when she gets to speak to Machi, from the absolute euphoria that comes from meeting someone who has made such an impact in her life. A soft smile graces Machi’s lips when she’s said to never smile in front of the camera and possess a heart of ice. Kurapika appreciates that she doesn’t appear to be as cold as her image makes her out to be.

“What do you have there?” Machi asks, looking up from signing the album.

“A scarf for you, since it’s getting cold.” Pink cashmere pools in her hand and she visibly hesitates when one of the bodyguards sends her a glare. “It’s not much, but will you accept it?

“Sure,” Machi says, waving the man away without even breaking eye contact with the fan. She lowers her head in front of her. “Put it on me?”

With trembling hands, the woman wraps the scarf around her, swathing her in a shade of pink that matches her hair. “Thank you so much!”

“I should be thanking you. Make sure to stay warm.” Machi passes the album over the expanse of the table to Pakunoda, where the fan moves onward, delighted to have had the courage to give the gift to her.

Even if they don’t remember their fans, it’s thoughtful that the members make an effort to make their fans’ experience worthwhile. Without the need to act perfectly polite or keep disingenuous smiles on their faces the entire time.

They’re only about ten feet away from the table when Leorio returns to his side. “Almost our turn.”

“Do you know what you want to say to them?”

Leorio just radiates with confidence. “Of course.”

Kurapika’s looking forward to what he has to say. When it’s their turn, the bodyguard by Machi’s side motions for Leorio to walk up to the table. Leorio plasters the biggest grin he can manage on his face, the corners of his eyes creasing from the force of it.

With a click, Machi uncaps a marker and takes one of the albums from the stack. “Who am I making this out to?”

Kurapika expects him to tell her _the most handsome man in the world_ or something along those lines.

Instead, Leorio just stares.

Like he’s trying not to pass out and die.

Machi raises an eyebrow and Kurapika does the same. It takes an elbow to the side before Leorio makes a pained sound and composes himself. He doesn’t even say anything before accepting Machi’s signature and sliding over to meet Pakunoda. So much for that.

“What’s up with him?”

Kurapika shrugs. “I guess he likes you guys so much that he forgot what to say.”

As she looks up at him, a flicker of recognition passes through her blue eyes. She’s the kind of artist who sings songs that tear boys like Kurapika apart and being in her vicinity makes him slightly nervous now.

“Have we met before?”

“Ah, this is my first time coming to your show.” It’s the truth. He lifts his face mask a bit higher to cover his nose. He doesn’t want to say too much and it’s not that he needs to avoid being recognized by the Ryodan themselves, but it would certainly make him uncomfortable.

“Well, alright. I hope you enjoyed the show.” Machi hands the album over and he receives it with both hands in quiet thankfulness. “Thank you for coming tonight.”

He has only been on the other side of the table for his own fansigns, so it feels a bit strange to act like a fan now. He’s not sure if he can really call himself a fan, though he did appreciate their performances tonight. At this point, he realizes that Leorio is no longer by his side and has most likely finished meeting everyone.

Before long, he’s standing in front of Kuroro.

“Hi.” Kuroro smiles with an overwhelming amount of charm. His styled hair is losing its hold, but the loose strands fall nicely across his forehead. “Did you have fun tonight?”

“I did,” Kurapika admits.

Perhaps Kuroro simply has the ability to make people fall for him in the span of a heartbeat. Or perhaps Kurapika was so swept up in the moment, that he lost himself in the atmosphere of the concert. But he feels like he gained something from the concert, something that no one can take from him, empowering him to put in as much passion into his own work as he witnessed tonight.

“I’m glad.” Kuroro spins the marker in his hands and looks at him like he’s seducing an audience of one instead of thousands. “Did you come see me? Looked like you couldn’t take your eyes off me tonight.”

His fans would surely rejoice at this, but Kurapika decides to lie. “I'm more of a Pakunoda fan.”

He isn’t sure how Kuroro expected him to respond, but judging by the surprise that flickers across his features, it’s clear he expected him to say yes.

“Paku? I was so sure that—” Kuroro schools his face into a more amused expression. “Well, I'm sure she won't mind if I steal one of her fans.”

Kurapika isn’t sure where this is going. “I beg your pardon?”

“I'd like you to have something.” As Kuroro reaches for a bouquet of white flowers, Kurapika thinks that it’s in poor taste if he plans on giving away another fan’s gift.

“Why?”

Too unexpected, Kuroro reaches out and gently lifts the cap from his head, lets his blond hair fall freely across his face. His hair is growing out, and if he leaves it for much longer, the length will extend past his chin. Carefully, he tucks a flower behind his ear.

"Because it suits you."

Kurapika has to suppress the urge to scoff at this, when there are so many fans staring and murmuring about Kuroro's intimacy. Part of their job is to make fans feel nice, but Kuroro's efforts are so cliché and outdated that it feels more like a joke. “It's going to take more than pretty words to win me over.”

"Playing hard to get, I like that,” Kuroro says with a laugh. He finally returns Kurapika’s hat and turns his attention to the album cover. “What would you like me to write here?”

“Anything you want to.”

Opening up the album, Kuroro chooses to write inside the booklet instead. “What a shame,” he murmurs. “It’d be nice to see more of you.”

“We’ll see about that,” Kurapika answers, indifferent.

Kuroro writes much more than his name and then, he looks up at Kurapika with every intent to woo. “Here you go, all signed and personalized for Paku’s beautiful fan.” He slides the album to Kurapika face down, either for privacy or to look cool. If Kurapika seems too incredulous, he would just need to forgive him, by virtue of being too ridiculous. “Next time, I’ll make you my fan for sure.”

“Thank you,” Kurapika says out of politeness, turning away from the signing table without another word.

As he walks away, Kuroro says something so quiet that he nearly misses it.

“—see you, Kurapika.”

Kurapika whirls around, heart in his throat, but Kuroro’s already speaking to the next eager fan in line. There are several girls gaping at him, so he puts his cap back on, flower be damned. Perhaps his imagination is playing tricks on him, given how long this night has been.

He waits until he’s in the lobby and away from prying eyes to look inside the booklet.

Kuroro’s message is only two lines long:  

> _To Paku’s fan:_
> 
> _Can I see you after this? Please wait for me at the café across the street._

In any other situation, Kurapika would have laughed because clandestine trysts should only belong in teenage fantasies. But his mind is trying to catch up with his heart, beating far too fast, nearly panicked. He fumbles to find his phone, only to be greeted with a text message from Leorio stating that he’ll be drowning his sorrows at the karaoke bar with other fans.

His heart hasn’t calmed down any, but he closes the album and goes.

 

 

 

  

“Sorry for making you wait.”

Kurapika looks up from his book, with the white flower pressed against the page as a bookmark.

It takes a moment for him to process that Kuroro is standing in front of him. His hair falls over his cross tattoo in its natural state, parting easily at the center and free of any gel product. A pair of black frames sit atop his nose bridge, although they’re most likely non-prescription glasses. His jacket and pants are loose-fitting, comfortable, and he looks absurdly _normal_.

Kuroro cocks his head curiously when he doesn’t receive a response. “Kurapika?”

Kurapika closes his book. “So you know who I am.”

“You performed at the Japan Record Awards over a year ago,” Kuroro says easily, and settles into the empty seat across from him. With the high backing of their leather seats, they’re away from anyone curious enough to look at them. Kurapika even removes his cap and mask while they're here. “I was there.”

“That’s not what I meant—” Kurapika doesn’t want to think about what happened last year, and something doesn’t seem right about this. “I was only invited because of my company’s connections. Not because I was a contender for an award.”

“I think,” Kuroro says with a charismatic smile, “that you’ve done much more than you take credit for.”

“That’s easy for you to say.” Kurapika internalizes his words as something patronizing, because they’re being spoken by someone who has more accomplishments than he could ever imagine.

But Kuroro isn’t ready to give up. “After four years of training, you successfully debuted as a solo artist under Nostrade Media.”

Kurapika looks up at him, surprised. “You—”

“—collaborated with composer Senritsu for your first album, performed at Yokohama Arena when you were just a high school student—”

“How did you—”

“—rose to the top of the charts with your second album, achieved a music show win during the first week of promotions—”

“I robbed an empty house—”

“—and vanished from the industry soon thereafter.”

Kuroro isn’t wrong, and that stuns him into silence. He searches his mind for arguments that aren’t there. His throat feels tight, not the way it feels right before crying, but tight as in it’s difficult for him to speak.

Kuroro’s smile is conspiratorial. “I’d love to know what made someone like you want to attend our show tonight.”

“I think that you know too much already,” Kurapika manages to say, and he wants to know _why_.

“I’m a curious person by nature. Does it bother you that I know?”

“I don’t know.” It comes as a surprise when Kuroro is curious about _him_ , of all people. And he’s serious, with all indications of his coquettish behavior from the autograph session gone. He’s too much of an enigma, full of contradictions, and Kurapika might admire him one moment, only to resent him the next. “You just surprised me, that’s all.”

“Because you don’t like talking about yourself?”

“It’s just strange hearing it from you.” It makes Kurapika feel less than perfect when he hears about things that he’s done and has too many regrets to name. He thinks of the times the media has characterized him as a pretty face, meant for nothing but music videos and fan service. “Can you get to the point?”

Kuroro does nothing to hide the way his gaze turns serious. “I might know who you are, but nobody knows why you disappeared.” He can't fathom why Kuroro cares so much. “If it has to do with Nostrade's financial difficulties, have you considered joining a different agency?”

“My contract has yet to expire,” Kurapika answers. It's not that easy, to give up the history he has with his company.

What Kuroro says next is inconceivable.

“We could buy out your contract,” he proposes carefully, with a sentiment too unprecedented, “if you would be willing to join the Ryodan.”

It takes a moment for his words to sink in.

Kurapika searches him for any signs that he’s being deceived, but he isn’t, or Kuroro is just that good with words. Meteor Entertainment was only a fledgling of an agency when it was founded and upon Kuroro's success, it became an empire that reached all parts of the entertainment industry. Only a fool could refuse. 

“I don't quite understand," Kurapika says weakly. 

“You have too much potential for it to go to waste. Will you consider it?”

Kurapika closes his eyes in thought. His chest aches with an instinctive guilt when he even dares think about it. Being born and raised in Nostrade’s company, there are certain ideals that flow in his veins, having been embedded there for years. Whether he thinks about it now or a month from now, he can’t fathom being on stage with Kuroro’s group, when it means leaving behind his foundations and the place he calls home, whether he likes it or not.

“Thank you for the offer.” Kurapika says, standing up to leave. He feels humbled by the opportunity, but immediate gratification goes against everything he stands for, and he definitely doesn't need Kuroro's charity to succeed. “But I'm sorry.” 

This time, he doesn’t look back when Kuroro calls out to him.

 

 

 

 

Around two in the morning, Kurapika gets an Instagram notification. He rarely uses the app, only opening it up when there’s a notification that he has been tagged in a photo or even when he decides to upload his own photo to ensure his fans that he’s alive. But the last time he logged in was over a year ago.

The message is so unexpected that his phone nearly falls from his grasp.   

> **kurorolucifer** has started following you

Kurapika’s finger hovers over his username and doesn’t bother following him back. But he views Kuroro’s profile out of curiosity and expects that he’ll find photos with captions bordering on inducing second-hand embarrassment.

In his most recent photo, adoration comes in the form of a bouquet of white flowers.  

> **♥** 66,106 likes
> 
> **kurorolucifer** #muse
> 
> _View 9,014 comments_

Some of the replies are thanking Kuroro for his performance tonight, while others are desperate to know more about the source of his inspiration, dreaming that whoever they are must be as _lovely as those flowers_. It’s when he sees things like this that makes him remember exactly why he avoids social media. He doesn’t care for the rest of Kuroro’s photos and navigates to his own profile instead.

Waiting for him are videos of his dance practices and album promotions, with either terse captions or no caption all. He just couldn’t be bothered. There are the photos he was required to share from sponsored campaigns, of him wearing high fashion brands that were subjective in taste. There are a few scenic photos as well, of night skies and the rustic countryside from when he visited his hometown with Leorio.

Kuroro likes all of his photos.

He supposes that Kuroro isn’t too heartbroken to have his offer rejected if he’s stalking Kurapika’s social media like this. It’s not that Kuroro can find anything new on his page either, when he seems to know about his entire repertoire. Their conversation from earlier echoes in his mind, taking him farther and farther away from sleep.

 

 

 

 

When hundreds of notifications flood his phone, something is inherently wrong.

Despite being away from the spotlight for months, his name seizes headlines on the front page of all the major news sites, and each and every article brings him back to Kuroro. Born from the sensational minds of journalists, there’s the curious, impossible idea that they’re _together_.

If Kurapika had promotions, then he would have expected this to be a poor publicity stunt from Nostrade. But he doesn’t, and each article title leaves him in greater disbelief and confusion than the last—

> _Kuroro’s elusive lover revealed_
> 
> _Kuroro Lucifer and Kurapika spotted on a secret date—a romance that transcends boundaries_
> 
> _Kuroro’s muse is flower boy Kurapika_

Kurapika’s heart races in his chest, beating faster, and he needs to remember to breathe. A morbid curiosity compels him to read an article by the most renowned media outlet.

All he finds are secret photos from the concert and the aftermath _,_ of Kuroro looking in his direction at the show; Kuroro gently touching at him at the autograph session and the ridiculous flower; and Kuroro meeting him at the café, despite that they only met for around fifteen minutes. There are even theories drawn from Kuroro's Instagram posts, and even more in the comments section.

> [+12,457, -3,023] I don’t know who blondie is, but Kuroro’s popularity will surely fall. He can do so much better than this nobody. I’m seriously disappointed in him.
> 
>   
>  [+9,056, -2,724] He’s a homo? Shocking.
> 
>   
>  [+6,892, -2,978] What’s the point of idols without fans? We’ve invested so much time and money to shower the Ryodan with love, protected you from getting hate, and stuck by you during scandals. That’s how you’ve made it this far. You dare betray us like this?
> 
>   
>  [+4,290, -1,421] I’m Kuroro’s fan. He’s my idol and I hoped that he’d be different than the rest. I guess not. I guess that now you’re successful, the Ryodan isn’t as important as your personal freedom. I don’t think I can support you anymore if this continues.
> 
>   
>  [+1,268, -6,424] If someone like Kuroro is flirting with you, then I doubt he’d get rejected. From being a nobody to dating a top star, blondie sure hit it big. Wishing you all the best.
> 
>   
>  [+1,014, -5,498] I think they’re cute together. I went to the concert tonight and thought Kurapika was just a fanboy. No wonder why Kuroro looked so happy. You have my support!
> 
>   
>  [+986, -8,026] Fans shouldn’t feel betrayed. You dumb bitches, Kuroro isn’t responsible for your lives. Wish him happiness and continue to love him. And if you think he ever liked women, then you weren’t a real fan in the first place. Downvote me if you dare, delusional bitches.

Unpleasant comments are nothing new to Kurapika, but it doesn’t sit well with him that his name is disgracing Kuroro’s reputation. As an active representative of the company, Leorio could have put an end to the misunderstanding, could have explained that he and Kuroro didn’t even know each other, and that this was just a poor excuse for journalism. But perhaps he was so inebriated from meeting his new friends, that he became enthralled at the prospect of a secret love between him and Kuroro.

Leorio chooses to immortalize this in a post with two photos that he personally captured from the concert. There's one of Kurapika—wide eyed, flushed cheeks, and enamored from the moment he met Kuroro’s gaze, depending on perspective. The other is of Kuroro looking in his direction—looking _only_ at him.  

> **♥** 28,908 likes
> 
> **dr.paladiknight** #stankurokura2018
> 
> _View 3,046 comments_

The comments are in an uproar. Some fans are threatening to leave the fanbase, while others have expressed their disappointment in Kurapika in leaving the industry just to date in secrecy. Kurapika scrolls through the stream of comments, encountering a few messages of support, but mostly malicious ones with a complete disregard for respect. 

If there's one thing he learns tonight, it's that his career is _far_ from over.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Kurapika is a solo artist, whereas Kuroro is part of an idol group. The Ryodan here consists of only four members—Kuroro, Shal, Paku, and Machi.
> 
> * What Leorio wears to the concert is a _happi_ coat—a traditional festival coat that hardcore idol fans occasionally wear. 
> 
> * Kurapika breaks Kuroro's heart twice—once when he claims that his bias is Paku, and the second time when he rejects his offer.
> 
> An alternate summary for this fic would go something like this: Kuroro is terrible at flirting and Kurapika is more dense than he seems. I used to work in the Korean entertainment industry, but obviously, this is a very romanticized view of the entertainment industry. I had some nice opportunities, like meeting idols and working behind the scenes. 
> 
> I wrote this to cheer myself up, but unfortunately, my personal life has taken a turn for the worst. I was quite optimistic at the beginning of this month, but I have experienced some very serious setbacks in my life. 
> 
> I'll also work on updating my existing fics, albeit very slowly. I hope you liked this chapter, though. It's probably the longest chapter I've written so far.
> 
> Please leave a comment. I'd love to know what you think about this fic! 
> 
> You can also reach out to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/seiyunablog) or [Tumblr](http://seiyuna.tumblr.com/).


	2. Chapter 2

 

There are people who never hesitate to apologize—people who prostrate themselves in front of others even when they’re not sure what they’re even sorry for—just to be the better person and minimize repercussions.

Kurapika isn’t one of those people.  

As expected, the early days of his career were rife with attitude controversies. Something as small as a lack of smile towards reporters meant being painted as a narcissist in tabloid articles. Kurapika never apologized, because being an artist didn’t mean that he had to welcome people with a bright smile every moment of the day, especially when they were infringing on his privacy.

He should be lowering his head in front of Chairman Nostrade for a scandal as grand as this one, but even now, this isn’t his fault. It’s the first time he’s been in Nostrade’s office for months, a wide space with expansive windows overlooking the city skyline and harbor. The sole chair in front of the desk is where it all began—where he signed his first contract with Nostrade Media, feeling like he was on the top of the world when he looked through these perfectly clear windows. The city lights glittered as though they were stars, close enough for him to reach out and pluck them one by one.

Kurapika should have been invited back with news of his comeback. Instead, he returns for a reason he would never expect. Photos and newspaper articles are strewn over what used to be Nostrade’s clean mahogany desk, mirroring the images he had already seen on his phone screen.

The silence reprimands him. There’s only the sound of the page turning in Nostrade’s hands as he peruses through the contents of the newspaper. Moments of the prior night are captured on the front page, but the photos aren’t revealing—they aren’t holding hands or kissing as the general public would expect—because they aren’t _actually_ in a relationship.

“I didn’t know you were close to Kuroro Lucifer,” Nostrade finally says.

“I’m not.” Kurapika evenly meets Nostrade’s gaze as he looks up from the newspaper. “I’ve never met him outside of last night.”

Nostrade looks somber even with his face half-hidden, more so than he usually would. “The press thinks otherwise. If you have no affiliation with Lucifer, then what were you doing with him?”

The accusation is there and Kurapika tries to not let it get to him, but it does, making his stomach churn with dread. So much has been taken from him already, and he will not allow himself to be shamed by false allegations.

“We had a quick chat after the concert.” Kurapika doesn’t disclose what was discussed, because it’s another issue entirely if Nostrade learns that Meteor Entertainment scouted him. He may have declined Kuroro’s offer, but there’s no telling what his own agency would say if lucrative terms were offered for the contract. “That’s all. Even if we were friends, I’m at a loss for words as to why these speculations would come about.”

The articles feel as though they came from a news satire organization, but they’re absolutely real. Kurapika wants to reach over, crumple the pages in Nostrade’s hands, and discard them in the trash where they belong.

It shouldn't be unreasonable for Kuroro to have a life outside of his entertainment company. It shouldn't be unreasonable for them to even be friends, even if Kuroro seems to be so out of reach, so unattainable to the world. But Kuroro's fans _love_ him, even though their vision of love means watching his every move, formulating opinions of his relationships when they've never met him, feeling entitled to his life when they willingly consume images they only know through music and social media. His fans want Kuroro to be with them or his bandmates or someone who's on his _level_. 

Not someone like Kurapika. 

“I can think of a few reasons,” Nostrade eventually says, setting down the newspaper over the desk. “The paparazzi knew exactly what they were doing—manufacturing scandals when there were none. They either hold animosity towards you and Lucifer, or they were desperate enough to sell these photos and fabricated stories to media outlets for fast compensation. Possibly both, but this seems more on Lucifer’s end than anything, considering that the scandal has affected his public image more than yours.”

“This is character assassination,” Kurapika says, because they can benefit so much from their image and lose everything to it too.

Nostrade crinkles the edges of the newsprint, running his fingers over Kurapika’s name emblazoned in the headlines. “Interestingly enough, Meteor Entertainment has neither denied nor accepted the claims. What do you have to say about that?”

“I would appreciate if you could believe me more than sensational headlines without substantial proof.”

His gaze softens into something more paternal. “I do, but the impact to our company is undeniable. We planned to release Neon’s album at the end of the month, but we’re rapidly losing support from the fans. Rumors are spreading that we’re using Lucifer’s name to promote ours—all of this noise marketing nonsense. We’ll have to delay her comeback to rectify the situation.” A heavy sigh escapes him, and he pinches the bridge of his nose to ward off a headache. _“_ She’s going to be upset at me.”

The framed photographs and posters of Neon’s face all over the office remind Kurapika that Nostrade sells a fantasy with his daughter rather than focusing on selling music—which is concerning when she is only sixteen years old. She doesn't write her own songs or compose her own music or choreograph her dances. She lip syncs her stages and never remembers her choreography, but it doesn't matter to her father since she's supposed to be a refreshing, girl-next-door kind of idol who resonates with the hearts of the nation's youth.

Kurapika doesn't resent her—far from it. He wishes that she would place more effort into her work, utilize her potential to develop her skills, when she's getting opportunities at the cost of Kurapika's absence. But he holds his tongue and doesn't make his thoughts known.

“You are no stranger to scandals,” Nostrade says, but doesn't blame him outright. “You were in the news for a similar issue before—something about you enticing married men after you were seen speaking privately to one.”

Kurapika can't suppress the disgust from showing on his face. “You mean when Hisoka offered to sponsor me?”

“That,” Nostrade answers with a frown, “and a few other occasions.”

They don't speak of the times Kurapika was approached by affluent businessmen, carrying offers of connections within the industry in exchange for more _private_ favors. They propositioned him with roles on the big screen, which didn't interest him when he was a music artist first and foremost; endorsements from luxury brands, when he was already content with the brands he was working with; and financial support to fuel a more extravagant lifestyle. When sponsors had power and participants were willing, these relationships were so institutionalized in the industry—but Kurapika became an outlier the moment he refused.

He wasn’t the respectful, complaisant newcomer he should have been, but he was good at not being so.

 _You are not desperate enough_ , they told him.

 _No_ , Kurapika answered, sneering in their faces, because he was going to leave them breathless with awe without their support. The media spun the story in an entirely different direction, but mere speculation was not enough for his dedication to waver.

“There is some good that came out of this,” Nostrade reveals with a thoughtful tone, making him straighten with attention. “Someone is interested in sponsoring you, though not in the way we would expect.”

“We’ve established that sponsorship doesn’t interest me.”

“The CEO of Kakin Empire remarried several times—” At the very thought of the man, horror settles within his stomach, because Nostrade couldn't possibly mean to sell him out. “We received a call from Oito Hui Guo Rou this morning, and she expressed her interest in meeting you.”

“The CEO’s wife?”

Nostrade nods in affirmation. “Last night’s events compelled her to reach out to us.” He retrieves a white envelope from his drawer and slides it across the polished wooden surface of his desk, but Kurapika doesn’t take it. “I was asked to extend this invitation to her daughter’s first birthday celebration.”

Kurapika laughs breathlessly. “I’ve caught the eye of married women now.”

“She means well,” Nostrade says. “She made it clear that this is a business negotiation—she doesn’t desire your companionship or anything physical. Instead, she’s willing to support your return to the industry if it means that she can contribute to your music. I could have declined on your behalf, but I would like for you to take the offer.”

“Why?” Kurapika’s eyes narrow at the white card on the desk. “What’s in it for you?”

“Not much for me,” Nostrade says, and his words only give rise to skepticism. Financial incentives should appeal to him when their company has experienced significant losses from increasing expenses towards Neon’s music, only to acquire fewer and fewer sales. “But a great deal for you. We don’t have the capacity to promote you as an artist right now, but this is a good opportunity for you to grow. If someone from a company as renowned as Kakin is invested in your comeback, don’t you think you should accept?”

“I—” Kurapika swallows the refusal at the edge of his tongue, thinking back to what he told Kuroro. This is a different matter—remaining at his company and returning to the limelight at the expense of deferring to someone he has never met. His future should be in his company’s hands, not anyone else’s.

Nostrade folds his hands together on the surface of his desk, the gesture he does when he’s making an investment or closing out on a deal, a perfect picture of the businessman he happens to be. “Will you meet her before you decide?”

Kurapika has already decided, though.

“Alright,” Kurapika says, “but don’t expect anything to come out of it.”

 

 

 

 

Kurapika doesn’t wear shoes to dance, but in the back of his closet, he keeps a collection of clean canvas sneakers and polished dress shoes for occasions like these. He slides into a pair of black oxfords and they fit the way they should, molding to his feet, but they’re not as comfortable as he would like.

His body wants to be freed from the facade of his suit, when all it knows are tee shirts and sweatpants that hang loose on his frame. Uneasiness looks back at him in the reflection of the full mirror, because there’s more worth in his wardrobe than what he has in savings. He can thank all of his fashion pictorials for that.

He looks decent, even if something seems wrong. He no longer has a stylist to tend to his sartorial needs, so he takes care of himself. His bangs have been swept behind his ears, revealing the glint of his crimson earring. His shoulders are all lean lines from the tailored fit of his blazer, lending strength to his frame. The knot in his tie is flawless, but he spends too much time affixing a clip to the length of the tie, adjusting it so the silver dolphin insignia points perpendicular to the edge.

“You look good!” Leorio calls out to him from where he’s splayed out on his bed. When Kurapika said he could make himself comfortable, that didn’t include messing up his neat bedsheets. “Seriously, you’ll be late if you keep this up.”

“If you say so,” Kurapika mumbles.

“I mean it—I might’ve even snapped a few photos when you weren’t looking.” Leorio ends his confession with a cough when Kurapika throws him a pointed look. “Are you sure you don’t want me there?”

“I think I’ll be fine.” Kurapika touches his tie clip one more time for good measure. “I don’t want to get you involved with unnecessary attention.”

Leorio shakes his head regretfully. “I guess people will expect you to go with your boyfriend instead of your manager.”

Even if it’s a joke, his heart clenches without warning.

“Will you stop that?” Kurapika glares, but he’s met with a knowing grin. “It’s bad enough that you added fuel to the fire.”

Leorio gives him a careless shrug, as if he didn’t make a trending Instagram post and was affectionately declared president of their new fanclub overnight. “I’m surprised that Nostrade didn’t capitalize on this more. Actually have you pretend to date him and all that. Any kind of publicity is good publicity.”

“You’ve been watching way too many dramas. I’d rather people to know me for myself than Kuroro’s alleged—” Kurapika breathes out a deep sigh. “Boyfriend.”

Kurapika has plans for the future, and those plans don't involve being known as Kuroro Lucifer's lover for the rest of his life.

“Sorry! I was just teasing you.” Leorio beams at him. “I’ll drop you off and pick you up later tonight. Is there anything you want me to do in the meantime?”

“I do, actually,” Kurapika says, and Leorio perks up at that. He doesn’t make a habit of asking much of him, but something _has_ been bothering him of late. “Can you look into something for me?”

 

 

 

 

Kurapika has no business being invited to the Hui Guo Rou residence. Surrounding him are high-profile industry executives and renowned celebrities, making this seem more like a business function rather than a celebration for a child’s first birthday. He’s never met most of the guests here, so he’s certain that he hasn’t done anything to warrant the gazes as he walks past them, as if he wronged them somehow. The attention is validating, if he chooses to think of it this way.

Kurapika doesn’t answer to the whispers questioning his appearance at the event and his relationship to Kuroro. He returns their stares with challenge in his eyes.

Oito and her daughter are nowhere to be found in the throng of guests dressed in silk gowns with plunging necklines and well-tailored suits, resplendent with jeweled embellishments, though he recognizes other members of the family. The eldest daughter, Camilla, descends the broad staircase like something out of a drama, the trail of her gown whispering over the steps behind her. She looks like a widow with her ensemble of black, standing several inches higher than the photos he has seen from the runway.

Camilla watches him closely with sharp eyes. She asks in a voice commanding of attention, “Where’s Kuroro Lucifer?”

“I wasn’t aware that he’d be here tonight,” Kurapika says dryly. 

“I don’t like liars,” Camilla sneers, looking at Kurapika as if he isn't worth her time. At least, she doesn't believe that Kuroro is romantically involved with him. Even though she's deluded into thinking that Kuroro belongs to _her_. “I wore this dress for him, so he better be here to see it.”

Kurapika resists the urge to make a face. When the other guests shower her in praise for her ensemble, he makes his escape. He would rather not interact with the more unpleasant members of the family, though it seems unavoidable tonight. A table stretches across the back of the room, laden with attractive desserts.

If he’s here, he may as well indulge himself.

As a waiter passes by, he snags a flute of champagne and downs it before heading to the table. The wine sits well with his stomach, loosening a tense knot inside him. It’s pleasant. Leorio usually keeps him occupied during events since he never takes the initiative to converse with the other guests. Tonight, however, his only company comes in the form of wine and gourmet cakes.

Kurapika has the irrepressible urge to occupy himself with anything other than social interaction. He turns his attention to his phone even if there aren’t any sites or apps that he frequents. Checking Instagram again is a mistake, though he already muted his notifications from this morning.

Awaiting him are hundreds of direct message requests from users he doesn’t follow, hidden behind icons of Kuroro’s face. Ignoring them would be easy enough, but among the icons, a familiar username catches his attention. He narrows his eyes, uncertain if he’s reading the name correctly, but taps on the message.       

> **kurorolucifer**
> 
> Can we talk?
> 
> By the way, this is really me.

Kurapika lets out an uneven laugh. Both of them have their fair share of fans impersonating them on social media, but some of these accounts are carefully curated pages with fantaken photos from Kuroro’s shows or reposts of Kuroro’s outfits. He loses track of how many times he returns to read Kuroro’s message.

He needs another distraction. His throat feels very dry, so he breaks away from his phone screen, waving for a waiter carrying champagne. He reaches for the last flute on the tray, but long fingers sweep it up first. The glass falls into the grasp of a manicured hand, a gold band gleaming on the ring finger. Already, the beginnings of a headache throb at his temple.

Kurapika doesn’t need to look up to find the shock of red hair, the face paint on his cheeks, the coquettish curve of his lips. “No plus one?”

He doesn’t respond to the false cheer of Hisoka’s voice, choosing to focus on the effervescence of the wine in his hand. He forces himself to swallow through the dryness in his throat. Perhaps Hisoka will leave if he ignores him.

“I don’t see Kuroro anywhere,” Hisoka continues, unfathomable amusement in his tone. He swishes the glass around, wine fizzing around the circumference, before taking a drawn-out sip. The evidence of consumption is a red lipstick stain left on the rim of the glass. “Did you two have a fallout?”

“A fallout couldn’t happen if there was no relationship to begin with,” Kurapika says calmly. “You couldn’t possibly believe in the rumors.”

“There’s no need to keep secrets between us.” Kurapika’s skin prickles with awareness beneath the weight of Hisoka’s gaze, appraising him as if he were a work of art and Hisoka, a collector. Hisoka’s face seems closer than before. “I’m curious about how you two got together. Everyone is.”

“I don’t have any secrets, but feel free to believe what you want.” There’s no use making an effort to deny everything if his words will fall on deaf ears. Kurapika keeps a scowl on his face, though his words remain relatively calm. “I don’t see your husband anywhere.”

“Illumi will be late.” Hisoka’s smile never leaves his face. He was fortunate enough to marry into the famed Zoldyck family, but Kurapika wonders if they approve of his overtly intimate behavior towards other men. “On the other hand, you look like you wanted company.”

“You’re mistaken.” Kurapika turns away without giving time for a response. Hisoka extends an arm out, blocking him from moving, holding out a business card between two of his fingers. The thought that he could _end_ someone’s life with the edge of the card flickers through Kurapika’s mind.

“You should call me if you reconsider my offer.”

Irrational impulse spikes up Kurapika’s spine, the kind that makes him want to pluck the champagne glass out of Hisoka’s hands and throw it over his face. But he faces forward, staring straight ahead, holding onto the conviction that his expression carries the sentiment that he doesn’t want this conversation to continue.

Thankfully, the waiter returns in time, bringing pause to the conversation that Kurapika’s been searching for. He has more than champagne to give when he says, “Lady Oito would like a word with you.”

 

 

 

 

Outside on the rooftop terrace, the conversations from the main hall have drifted away, replaced by a song Kurapika knows better than anyone else. The song pours from a small speaker, emphasizing the soft, vulnerable emotion in Kurapika’s voice, dissolving his verses in the evening wind.

He’s reminded of the power behind Kuroro’s music, how the hands behind the manufactured aspects of the industry cannot mold and bend his artistry to their will. He’s reminded of how his own music is nothing like that.

“The infamous Kurapika,” Oito says. She turns to him with a gentle smile, leaning over the railing. Her dress is simpler than any of the other women he had seen tonight, but she looks like a goddess watching over the city beneath them. “We finally meet.”

“I’ve never heard anyone call me that before,” Kurapika says with a polite smile. “Is your daughter here?”

“Woble’s asleep,” Oito answers with a sigh. “We’re not too fond of gatherings like these, but my husband was adamant on throwing an extravagant party. Even though she doesn’t do well with large crowds.”

Kurapika rubs a hand against his neck. “I should have brought a gift for her.”

“Woble has everything she could dream of,” Oito says wryly. “Your presence is more than enough.”

“About that,” Kurapika begins to say. “I’m not sure what you’re exactly looking for from me.”

Kurapika expects Oito to divulge her expectations and the details of the potential business contract between them and even the personal favors that often come with sponsorship. What he doesn’t expect is for her to blurt out, “Can I take a photo with you?”

“Yes,” Kurapika says, surprise evident in his tone. “Yes, of course.”

“Thank you so much,” Oito says in one breath. She pulls out her phone and positions it above their heads for the most flattering angle. Kurapika’s lips curve upward in response to the embarrassed smile on Oito’s face. Her hands are trembling so much that he nearly offers to take the photo for her, but the moment he looks up, the sound of the shutter goes off in succession.

“Oh!” Oito says breathlessly. “My goodness, there has to be a good one here. Thank you, Kurapika, I never thought the day would come that I would meet you in person, let alone take a picture with you.” Her voice rises to a pitch, making Kurapika laugh at her enthusiasm. “I’ve followed you since the beginning, from when you posted your first YouTube video.”

Kurapika flushes at the memory. His career all began with Leorio’s idea involving filming a dance cover on the roof of his apartment. At first, Kurapika thought it was a horrible idea and he was going to fall off the roof and die. But the camera captured the vibrant city lights in the backdrop, illuminating the contours of his body as he moved, making him look as though he was harnessing light in the darkness. Leorio uploaded the video on YouTube and the rest was history.

“I enjoy your music very much. Even Woble calms down with your voice,” Oito continues, “but it saddens me to know how much potential you have and how your talent is being wasted with your hiatus. I asked to meet you tonight because I’m willing to support the production of your next album if you’ll work with my contacts to make it happen.”

“You mean one of the Hui Guo Rou siblings?” Kurapika asks. No matter how much he appreciated her sentiments, he couldn’t imagine idea working with people like Camilla.

“Goodness, no.” Oito shakes her head. “My younger brother. He’s an accomplished producer responsible for his group’s music and his work is _impeccable_. His music isn’t driven by trends, so there’s a distinctly memorable quality to it. I’m confident he can elevate your voice into something brilliant.”

“Your brother,” Kurapika repeats.

“That would be me.”

Kurapika startles at the voice. He turns around, not expecting to see Kuroro in a sleek black suit and styled back hair. He resists the urge to flee from the scene.

From the slight arch of Kuroro’s eyebrows and the way his gaze studies him from head-to-toe, Kuroro didn’t expect him to be well-dressed either. “You look good, Kurapika.”

“What the hell,” Kurapika says under his breath. “I need a drink.”

“Why don’t I get you one?” Kuroro laughs softly. “You saw my message but you didn’t reply.”

“I was busy,” Kurapika answers flatly. “But I already told you that I didn’t want to work with you, so what’s going on here? If you’re thinking of making fun of me—”

“I asked my dear sister for a favor.” Kuroro’s gaze swells with affection when he looks over at Oito. “Can you believe that she was more interested in helping me as Kurapika’s lover than her younger brother?”

“I—” Kurapika’s words choke up in his throat. He wouldn’t care if he was referred to as such by anyone else, but the fact that Kuroro throws around his name so carelessly bothers him. “I’m not your—”

“I know,” Kuroro says, sounding the slightest bit regretful. The whole situation confuses Kurapika, because he never considered anything related to love or relationships to begin with. He was too busy dealing with his training and balancing his education and debuting and actually working in the industry, always fraught with strain and pressure, to even think of being in love with someone.

Kurapika doesn’t understand love beyond the borrowed ideas from his composers, the concepts imparted upon him so he could make the most of them during his performances. The love in his music isn’t even  _his_ , so how could the world think that he loves someone and someone like Kuroro loves him?

His hand clenches, his fingernails diggings curves into his palm. “Why are you doing this? You already know—”

“Do you know how many artists out there don’t have even the slightest of opportunities offered to you?” Kuroro's words are spoken quietly, but they carry a weight to them. “How many who get injured to the point they can’t dance anymore? They go back to the real world, watching everyone else make it while all they can do is _hurt_ over their lost opportunities.” Kuroro’s expression is unreadable in the faint light of the terrace, but the darkness of his eyes steals the air from his lungs. “That’s what I see when I look at you. I’m encouraging you to take what you want when it’s right here in front of you, Kurapika.”

Something _burns_ at Kurapika’s chest, because he can’t pour all of his love into his music the way Kuroro does. “It’s not that that easy.”

Kuroro shrugs. “Isn't it?”

“We recognize your talent, Kurapika.” Hope gleams in Oito’s eyes. “As a sponsor, I’m not offering you a contract with dubious conditions, but rather, a partnership. You would remain at your company while working with Kuroro, and we would handle not only the production of your album and choreography, but all of the management and marketing that comes with it. We would be happy to accommodate your request for a solo album if you aren’t interested in Kuroro featuring in your music. But as long as you’re willing to partner with Kuroro at the composition level, I’m more than happy to support you returning to the stage.” Oito reaches for his clenched fist, unfurling his fingers with quiet reassurance. “Don’t you want this?”

“I—” Kurapika wants to perform again. He wants to, desperately. “I do.”

“You can,” Kuroro murmurs.

His voice is too soft, barely holding up in the wind that rushes past them, but Kurapika hears.

In that moment, it’s Kurapika on the rooftop all over again and Leorio encouraging him to film a dance cover to one of Kuroro’s songs. He thinks of how it felt to be a high school student listening to a song composed by someone only a few years older, already conquering the music world, when it was only a distant dream for him. He thinks of what's stopping him from taking Kuroro's hand when he's reaching out to Kurapika right now.

All Kurapika can hear is the steady thrum of his heart, the song that plays from the speakers—his very own song—full of the quiet sentimentality that comes with moving ahead when he hears the word _can’t_ , overflowing with boundless hope and certainty.

This is all it takes for him to concede.

“Fine,” Kurapika says. “I’ll work with you.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, it's been a while! How are you guys doing? I promise that I haven't given up on writing for kurokura.
> 
> These chapters are definitely longer than what I usually write. There's a lot of detail in this fic, but I hoped you liked this update!
> 
> Please leave a comment! I'd love to know what you think about this fic so far. I'm always open to ideas! +:)
> 
> You can also reach out to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/seiyunablog) or [Tumblr](http://seiyuna.tumblr.com/).


	3. Chapter 3

 

Kurapika doesn’t bother blocking all the people leaving him hate comments and private messages—an impossible feat when the nation’s entire population of fans are against him. They may seem like only numbers on a screen, but it’s easy to forget that there are people behind them too. Misguided, highly devoted people who revere Kuroro as if he’s someone deserving of a statue worth his weight in gold. Their messages flood his inbox, but what catches his eye is a notification that he’s been tagged by Oito.

The light of Kurapika’s phone screen is stark in the darkness of his bedroom, even at the lowest brightness setting. He stares at his phone, the side of his face buried into his pillow, weary from tonight. He really should stop spending time on his phone before sleeping—it makes it more difficult for him to fall asleep when he’s exposed to the light and vulnerable to late night thoughts that freak him out more than they should.

Intending to sleep after this, he taps on the post.    

> **♥** 1,905 likes
> 
> **ladyoito** Dreams do come true. @kurapika
> 
> _Comments have been disabled for this post_

The photo, blurry from camera shake, shows Kurapika posing with a peace sign beside Oito. He’s bent down to accommodate her height, and both of them have small smiles on their faces. The photo is the first in a set of two, the other capturing the albums that Kurapika personally autographed for her tonight. Her comment makes him smile into his pillow.

Kurapika likes her post and follows her back. Not even a minute later, Oito comments on one of his old photos with _!!!_ and nothing more. He appreciates fans like her, when she enjoys his music and understands him beyond what fans are instructed to believe.

Kuroro’s username appears in his notifications again. If he wanted to get Kurapika’s attention, he certainly has it now, because what he posted was a photo of Kurapika without his permission. Here, he’s cradling Woble in his arms after meeting her at the party, gazing at her fondly while she’s looking up at him with the remnants of sleep in her eyes.     

>   **♥** 42,029 likes
> 
> **kurorolucifer** #birthdaygirl @ladyoito @kurapika
> 
> _Load more comments_
> 
> **ladyoito** This is going in our family picture album!
> 
> **pakusnose** I’m not a Kurapika stan but I think I just fell in love.
> 
> **kurapikachu**  That’s the smile of someone who has never done anything wrong in his life.

Kurapika wants to burrow himself further into his sheets. He didn’t even realize his photo was taken and now, the numbers on Kuroro's post are growing higher and higher. It could have been much worse if Kuroro wanted to embarrass him or make him suffer with an unflattering photo, but this is, in fact, a _nice_ photo.

From what he can see, some fans are more optimistic than others, sending messages of support. What makes him frown is the fact that Kuroro seems adamant on keeping him tied to the spotlight with him, when what he wants is anything but.

 

 

 

 

The media doesn’t let up on their senseless reports, as if they didn’t have more important things to report on. They publish news that really shouldn’t be considered news, like all of Kurapika’s interactions and Kuroro’s updates on Instagram, making it seem like Kurapika's relationship with him is something more. That’s what he sees online when all he wants to do is check the weather for the day.

He’s supposed to formally meet Kuroro today to finalize the conditions of their collaboration, but he can’t get himself out of bed. Still bleary from lack of sleep, he navigates to Kuroro’s unrequited conversation on the app and types out a message.    

> **kurapika**
> 
> Are you just going to ignore the rumors?

Kurapika's about to put his phone away, when the screen lights up with a response.   

> **kurorolucifer**
> 
> Nostrade already released an official statement, no? I have nothing to add to that.

It's lazy, but undeniably fitting, for Kuroro to act this way. Without a moment's deliberation, Kurapika sends a response before rereading it.    

> **kurapika**
> 
> Have you even read the news? I think you’re being too complacent.
> 
> **kurorolucifer**
> 
> Are you worried about me?
> 
> **kurapika**
> 
> What? No.
> 
> **kurorolucifer**
> 
> I’ve read funnier things about myself.
> 
> One time, Camilla bribed the reporters to release articles that I was dating her. Another time, they thought I had connections to the mafia since my family background wasn’t known to the public. But when the media found out I was related to the Hui Guo Rou family by marriage, there were all sorts of rumors, like the Kakin CEO manipulating the music charts in the Ryodan’s favor. The rumors died down over time.
> 
> We finished our tour a few days ago and we don’t have any activities at the moment, so I’m not too worried. Unless this is because of how our fans are treating you...
> 
> I’m sorry about that.

The rumors aren't going to die over the course of the week. Kurapika's sure of that. Even when rumors are proved to be false, they follow him for years. He won't be able to do _anything_ without someone discussing or posting or connecting it back to Kuroro.  

> **kurapika**
> 
> I couldn’t care less about what they say to me, but you should at least set them straight.
> 
> They deserve to know the truth directly from you.
> 
> **kurorolucifer**
> 
> You’re so thoughtful, caring for the hearts of people slandering you over the internet.
> 
> **kurapika**
> 
> I’m convinced that most of them are teenage girls. They should know better, but they obviously don’t.
> 
> **kurorolucifer**
> 
> You’re right.
> 
> Hmm… I’ll address the issue if you follow me back.
> 
> **kurapika**
> 
> What?
> 
> **kurorolucifer**
> 
> You followed Oito but not me.
> 
> **kurapika**
> 
> How do you even know that? I thought it was a joke that you were stalking me on social media...
> 
> **kurorolucifer**
> 
> For one, she messaged me at 2 AM to tell me. She really likes you so this was a big deal for her.
> 
> What does that make me?
> 
> **kurapika**
> 
> Maybe I don’t want your pictures on my feed.
> 
> **kurorolucifer**
> 
> That’s harsh.
> 
> You’re not even active on here. It’s not as though I’m asking you to date me for real.
> 
> **kurapika**
> 
> Fine.
> 
> **kurorolucifer**
> 
> Thanks. +:)
> 
> Come to Meteor Ent. later today to sign the contract.

True to his promise, Kuroro does make a post with a blank black photo. It’s not a formal statement like what Nostrade wrote; rather, it’s terse and reaches more people than he could ever imagine.        

> **♥** 32,108 likes
> 
> **kurorolucifer** Don’t bother with the articles. @kurapika and I are working on a collab. Look forward to it. #kurokura
> 
> _Load more comments_
> 
> **kurokuraofficial** You guys, he used the hashtag!

 

 

 

 

Kurapika wonders if he made things worse. That’s the thing with social media—even if he avoids it on all accounts, what people say about him still manages to reach his eyes and ears. They're on their way to Meteor Entertainment when Leorio gives him updates about the public’s perception of him.

Leorio slows to a stop when the traffic light flashes red. “You know those stories that fans write about you?”

“Yes?” Kurapika uncaps his water bottle and drinks from it. One of his most memorable fans came to his autograph signing and gave him a printed copy of her story, with him featuring as the main character. He couldn’t bring himself to read it, but he remembers Leorio talking about it for _days_ after going through it.

“I came across some really elaborate ones with you and Kuroro—”

Kurapika chokes on his water. “Stop there, please. I don’t want to hear it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that you’re really into this kind of thing.”

“Yeah,” Leorio answers with a suspicious laugh. “Your fans are really interesting. This morning, someone photoshopped that picture of you and Woble to look like you were holding Kuroro’s lovechild.”

“I _really_ didn’t need to know that, but now I have that image ingrained in my mind.” Kurapika groans. “Is this all you’ve been doing?”

He wonders how involved Leorio is with the fanbase anyway. Does he partake in all the discourse and theories too? His manager thinks all the relationship speculation is a good thing, because it keeps the fans invested and interested. But it feels like lying to the growing population of fans who want him and Kuroro together, because they're expecting some kind of public reveal from them where they're truly in love.

There won't be.

“I looked into what you asked me to. No luck so far,” Leorio says. “I haven’t been able to trace the paparazzo who sold those photos to the media. I’ll keep on looking, but I can’t make any promises.”

“Thank you,” Kurapika says, relieved that Leorio actually isn't wasting all of his time reading gossip articles and fan posts. “I’ll update you on how this meeting with Kuroro goes.”

Leorio quickly glances at him, giving him a reassuring smile. “You’ll be fine! You're getting the opportunity of a lifetime here.”

At the end of the shopping boulevard, Meteor Entertainment's glass facade rises into view. It doesn't rise as high as Nostrade Media's building, when theirs used to function as an administrative office before it was remodeled, but it's clearly an entertainment agency by the look of its modern architecture. The building stands out from its surroundings with its display of blown-up album covers and posters of the Genei Ryodan on its windows. It's difficult to miss.

“I’m not sure about that,” Kurapika admits, “but I’ll do my best.”

The gates prevent fans from lingering too close or entering the building, but that doesn't mean they can't still wait outside. They always do. Sometimes they're here to catch a glimpse of their favorite idols, other times they're here to demand feedback when there's a controversy as big as their dating controversy. These are the kinds of fans who Kurapika does _not_ want to cross paths with.

The windows of their van are tinted, so even as a few fans turn their heads towards them as Leorio drives past, they can't see who's inside. Thankfully, Leorio drops him off in the back of the building, away from any unnecessary attention. 

 

 

 

 

The first time Kurapika wore a mask of false bravado, he made his first steps into the spotlight, a newcomer in the music scene, sharing his songs with the world. The second time, he shares his songs with Kuroro.

Kurapika always carries himself with conviction, but the fact that he’s giving such an intimate aspect of himself to Kuroro—his thoughts, his words, his _songs_ —makes him vulnerable before judgment. He arrives to Kuroro's office on time without any problems, where Kuroro looks more like a businessman than a singer, nestled in a black leather chair behind a wooden desk. After handing his portfolio over, Kuroro spends a great deal of time reading through the papers without saying a word.

Silence descends upon them, stretching endlessly and making his heart beat an unsteady rhythm in his chest.

He’s nervous.

God, he’s so nervous.

Kurapika's never had the opportunity to share his works like this before. The industry has judged him as a singer, dancer, idol, but never _ever_ for his abilities as a creator. Kuroro, on the other hand, has every right to call himself an artist when he plays God with the way he weaves words together with such poignance that they could belong in novels. He’s the perfect embodiment of who and what an idol should be capable of.

When Kuroro finally looks up, his expression is blank in an unnerving way. His eyes have taken on the sharpness of a blade, cutting right through where Kurapika's most soft and vulnerable.

The answer Kuroro has for him is not what he expects, not what he wants to hear.

“I can’t work with this.”

Kurapika’s stomach drops. A myriad of responses flickers through his mind, wells up at the back of his throat, but only one makes its way past his lips. “What?”

The way Kuroro says _can’t_ rings through his mind, the way it did all those nights before when all he had was a blank canvas in front of him and no will to write. Disbelief fills every part of him when Kuroro lays down the stack of papers on the desk. Kurapika tries to gather his voice, but all words leave him. The shame of it burns at his face and neck.

There's a measured sort of blankness to Kuroro's face, showing Kurapika how professional he can be, unlike the warm, teasing smiles he’s used to receiving. “I don’t want you to write to conform to what everyone else is doing or with the mindset that you’ll be writing a masterpiece. I want to know your story.”

“Story,” Kurapika says numbly, a statement rather than a question.

“Anyone can write a song about heartbreak, but what makes it powerful is how vulnerable and sacred the feelings are to the writer, and how those feelings are interpreted by the singer. More often than not, songswriters conjure up experiences for singers who don’t really understand the meaning behind them.” _Like you_ , Kuroro doesn’t say, but Kurapika hears him. “If you haven’t felt like your heart was torn apart by something, how can you evoke those same feelings from your listeners?”

Kurapika _has_ felt like his heart was shattered into innumerable pieces. Too many times to count. If he were younger, more inexperienced, he would have balked at his words, because how _dare_ Kuroro speak as if he knows anything about him?

But Kurapika’s different now, and Kuroro’s trying to help. Instead of challenging him, he tries to understand what he’s saying. “So my writing lacks depth?”

Kuroro nods. “You’re good at expressing your emotions through performance, but penning them on paper is a different story. You’re the one responsible for your lyrics now, not anyone else, so I want you to write something that’s meaningful to you. What kind of story do you want to tell the world?”

It’s true.

Kurapika has always conveyed what he couldn’t with words through his body—that’s how he was able to debut as an artist in the first place. But no matter the confidence he carries himself with, it’s difficult to have created something, to have stripped himself down to his most vulnerable moments, only to be told that it’s lackluster.

When he had written these songs, he thought they were poignant.

Only now, a part of him agrees with Kuroro because his words reflect exactly how he felt at the time—lackluster, lost, and unworthy of standing in the light again.

“I—” Kurapika falters. “I’m not sure. I need to think about it more.”

Kuroro grows silent, turning his gaze outside the window, beyond the city. Kurapika’s slightly worried that he disappointed Kuroro somehow, when his expression doesn’t give way to anything and his mind is miles away from what Kurapika can fathom.

Finally, Kuroro rises from his chair, gazing at him with a softness in his eyes. “That’s fine,” he says, as though he’s imparting mercy, trusting Kurapika to make his own choices. “Let’s go find your story.”

 

 

 

 

Long car rides make Kurapika sick.

He ends up in the passenger seat of one of Kuroro’s more nondescript cars, and he can’t even look at the road. His stomach reacts poorly even when Leorio shuttles him from one place to the other, maneuvering through traffic while abiding by the laws of the road, so it’s not surprising that he feels like he’s _dying_ when Kuroro doesn’t seem to know how to drive.

His body presses firmly into the seat as Kuroro speeds as if the law doesn’t apply to him, changes lanes too much, swerves left and right and all over. The world speeds by in a blur of colors as Kuroro leaves all the cars behind him in the dust. Kurapika’s heart is ready to beat out of his chest, and he thinks, _I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye to you, Leorio._

When the car slows down amidst traffic, coming to a stop abruptly, Kurapika holds back the contents of his stomach. He shuts his eyes, head deliberately falling to the side and hitting the window with a dull thud. “Thank God.”

“Sorry?”

“Nothing,” Kurapika mutters. He doesn’t mind that they have to idle alongside traffic, because it means not having to endure Kuroro’s reckless driving. The car rolls slightly forward, then stops.

Forward, and stops again.

The repeated lurching motion might make Kurapika feel even more nauseous, but he prefers this than having to fear for his life on the road. The next fifteen minutes are spent in silence, and he tries to sleep—at least if he dies, he’ll die while subconscious—but sleep eludes him.

Meeting Kuroro face-to-face, having him acknowledge his existence, was never meant to be anything more than a fantasy. Yet, he’s so close to Kuroro here, sharing the same space as him, going on a sojourn together in search of a story.

Working with him is an honor that many can't afford, when he knows melodies as well as he knows his own heartbeat, but Kurapika doesn't understand why he chose him. He focuses on the song playing from the stereo now, a duet between Machi and Pakunoda that tells of a relationship between two women who recognize each other as soulmates. His fingers drum to the beat, restless against the car door.

His anxiousness must be apparent, because Kuroro breaks the silence first. “Why Paku?”

Kurapika opens his eyes. “What?”

“You chose her as your favorite.” A pause, fraught with hesitation. He can’t believe that Kuroro remembered what he told him the evening of the concert. “Why do you like her?”

Kurapika turns to him, but Kuroro only stares forward, presenting him with a view of his profile. The slant of Kuroro’s mouth is cautious, and he thinks that he sees Oito in his features now. Years of seeing Kuroro’s face in music videos, broadcasted music performances and commercials on television, pictorials in fashion magazines, have imparted upon him the knowledge that Kuroro is attractive—the darkness of his eyes enigmatic, his smile charismatic.

So what does it mean when those features are so hesitant, so pensive?

“She has a deeper tone than other female idols,” Kurapika answers, reminded of the high pitches that dominate Neon’s saccharine songs. “I like hearing her sing.”

Kuroro seems to contemplate this deeply, his brows furrowing in thought. Kurapika doesn’t play favorites, but he isn’t lying when he thinks that Pakunoda is pleasant to listen to. If Neon’s songs are supposed to be as sweet as fairy floss, full of fluorescent colors and princess dresses and childish exclamations—then Pakunoda’s songs are as seductive as wine, all lipstick-stained kisses and fur coats and sultry bravado.

“Not because she winked at you?”

“To be fair, you did that too,” Kurapika answers flatly.

Oddly enough, Kuroro’s laugh sounds relieved. “She does have an attractive voice. I thought she was your type.”

Kurapika shakes his head in disbelief, because there are more important things to be concerned about. He lies back against the seat, folding his arms over his chest. “Whatever.”

“I wrote this song,” Kuroro adds. “If you like this one.”

Kurapika never mentioned anything about that. He doesn't know why he seems to care for Kurapika's opinion so much. Even so, he decides to ask, “Where do you get your inspiration?”

“For this song?” Kuroro pauses, taking a moment to think back to the memory. “I found their story when Machi brought back a stray cat knowing fully well she was allergic to it.” His mouth curves into a smile, just barely there. “When Machi was on her phone the entire day, listening to Paku go on and on about her trip even when they had a twelve hour time zone difference. When Paku went bare-faced and had her hair in a messy bun for an important photoshoot just because she wanted to prove a point to the world.” His gaze softens with fondness, speaking of how much he cares for his members. “If you’re asking about otherwise, I turn to my muse for inspiration. Sometimes, even places. That’s why I’m taking you to one of my favorite places.”

“You haven’t even told me where we’re going.”

“We’re going to the sea.”

In that moment, he considers leaving Kuroro and driving back to Tokyo by himself. He’s torn between confusion and disbelief. “It’s ridiculously cold outside and you want to go to the _beach_?”

“You can find stories anywhere,” Kuroro says, a smile tilting on his lips, “but many of my stories have been found by the sea.”

 

 

 

 

When Kurapika hears the cries of seagulls overhead, the seaside town of Totori comes into view. With the windows rolled down, the wind rushing past carries the scent of sea salt and fresh vegetation, and he breathes it all in. A breeze ruffles Kuroro’s black hair as he drives on, and Kurapika can’t help but liken him to a dog poking his head out the window.

The clear expanse of the sea unfolds below the highway, its waves crashing against steep cliffs, and the water is so vast that Kurapika feels like he’s drowning in the very sight of it. Totori rises out of the sea, fading into the greenery of hills and mountains overlooking the water, and he’s never seen anything quite like this. The oblique rays of the afternoon sun fall over their faces, lending a welcome warmth amidst the chill of the sea.

“Ever been here before?” Kuroro asks, welcoming the sight like an old companion. His hair is windswept, moving with the wind running through the car. His left elbow props over the open window, relaxing against it. “It’s nice to get away from the big city once in a while.”

“Never,” Kurapika admits, staring out of the window. He raises a hand above his eyes to shield himself from the sun. They pass a stretch of terraced rice fields facing the sea, the green vibrantly contrasting against the background of azure waters. He’s reminded of the little things, like his reflection rippling in the puddles of paddy fields, small frogs darting in tall grasses, birds fleeing in sweeping patterns when storms rise. He’s spent so much time removed from his homeland that seeing something so reminiscent of it is almost an experience in itself. “I usually don’t leave Tokyo unless it’s for a few days at a time.”

Even then, he’s never ventured this far out to the country, this close to the sea. He’s gazed out the window of bullet trains and Leorio’s van when he traveled to perform at different venues across the country, watching staccato views scroll by, but more often than not, he slept on the way there.

Kuroro drives across the bridge, bringing them closer to the town with sun-blistered wooden homes flanked by rich forests and shimmering waters on both sides. “I come to Totori by myself when I need inspiration or a change of scenery. It’s easier to concentrate here.” He slows down around yellow warning signs emblazoned with the image of the foxbear, the area’s most beloved animal. “The town’s population is fairly small, so everyone respects that you’re here to rest and recuperate.”

“So you run away here often,” Kurapika says absently. He rests his cheek in his hand, the shape of his palm indenting into his face. The image of Kuroro dressed in a cotton robe, sitting on the steps of a teahouse, fawned over by a swarm of local girls even if they didn’t know who he was, somehow comes to mind.

“It’s more like going on a vacation where you don’t have to worry about your fans chasing you to the ends of the earth.”

“Is that what you tell your members?”

“No, they think I’m here to work.” Kuroro laughs. “It’s true, this time. We’re here to get work done.”

Kurapika makes a sound in acknowledgement, turning his gaze away from Kuroro to catching sight of an old castle of white stone looming at the edge of the water. His fingers wrap around his phone, and he stops himself before taking a photo. Leorio has more of an influence on him than he knows, but instead of capturing the scenery on his phone, he clings to the details and keeps them in his memories as they arrive to town.

Totori quietly hums all around them, inducing a sense of serenity that can’t be found in the city. Kuroro drives along the canal bisecting the neighborhood, lined with blossoming trees and aged buildings on both sides, and Kurapika pays attention to the ancient villas-turned-coffee shops bedizened with pink wisteria, art museums with vintage paraphernalia, and vermillion gates arching over the entrance of sacred shrines. While he won’t admit it aloud, a part of him _wants_ to step outside and see all these places when he's never had the chance to.

Kuroro eventually pulls up to one of the many traditional inns in the neighborhood, where the words _Whale Island_ are etched into the kitschy wooden sign displayed above the front door. He parks away from the other cars at the entrance and turns off the engine. “Charming, isn’t it?”

“You drove all the way here to bring me to a hotel?”

“Don’t make this sound worse than it seems,” Kuroro says dryly. “We’re staying here so I can show you around town.”

“We’re staying here,” Kurapika repeats blankly. “For more than one day? Leorio doesn’t know about this. I don’t know about this—”

“Trust me.” Kuroro opens the car door. “You’ll be able to get your work done without anyone bothering you here. I’m sure your management will be happy to know that you’re making progress on your music.”

Kurapika leaves the car begrudgingly. The air smells of cedar and cypress, but the murmur of water can be heard. Behind them, the bamboo stalk in the garden slowly fills with running water. “Did you forget that you’re here?”

Kuroro chuckles. “If this album’s going to happen, you need me more than anything. You’re not going to create something special over the span of one night.”

The bamboo gives way under the weight, expelling the water over the rocks, and flips back upright. The lower end hits the rocks below with hollow _thunk_ sound, breaking the silence of the garden. Kuroro turns to leave.

With a deep exhale, Kurapika follows him to the entrance, the paper doors whispering as they slide open. The walls of the reception area are painted a rich matcha green, illuminated by the light diffusing through rice paper screens in the back of the room. The place is empty except for a young boy standing behind the counter, clad in a robe the same shade of green. The owner’s son, perhaps?

The boy smiles brightly. “Kuroro!”

“It’s been a while, Gon.” Kuroro peers over the counter. “Where’s your aunt?”

“Aunt Mito’s out buying groceries for dinner tonight. She’ll be so happy to see you! Are you here for the festival? Is this Kurapika with you?”

With reluctance, Kurapika nods. Being seen with Kuroro in public makes him uncomfortable—at an _inn_ —nonetheless.

“That’s my hope. We’re going to stay for a bit,” Kuroro says, sliding his credit card over the counter. “Maybe a week.”

Kurapika sharply elbows him in his side. “A week?”

The smile on Kuroro’s face tells him that they’ll be here for a week _at least_. Gon processes Kuroro’s credit card, looking like one of those diligent kids helping out with their family business. When he finishes, Kuroro asks him to show them where they’ll be staying.

The wooden floors creak as they walk across the entrance pavilion. As Gon leads the way, he turns to Kurapika, eyes bright with awe. “You’re really cool when you dance! I watched you on TV when they were doing some kind of music show. Kuroro performed there too!”

“Thank you,” Kurapika says kindly. “Do you want to be an idol too?”

When more children dream of becoming celebrities than teachers or physicians or scientists, it comes as a surprise when Gon shakes his head. “Not really. My dad left us to become famous, so I never thought about it. I’m really happy helping Aunt Mito. I do the dishes and fold the towels and air out the futons, but she says that I’ll get more responsibility some day.”

“You’re a good kid.” Kurapika means it, because he thinks of everything he left behind in order to chase after his dreams in the big city. He doesn’t ask about Gon’s father, but if Gon’s features are anything to go by, he has the notion that he knows who he might be. “Does it ever get lonely here?”

Gon offers him a wide smile. “I get to meet so many people every day! It’s fun to meet new people but it’s always nice to see guests who end up returning, like Kuroro. He’s just never brought anyone with him before.”

“Right. I’ve never brought anyone with me before,” Kuroro echoes, vaguely amused.

Shaking his head, Kurapika brushes past him. Gon continues the conversation with Kuroro, asking about his plans for his time here, but Kurapika walks ahead. Where the room is partitioned off from the main hallway, he leaves his shoes behind and enters the room through sliding paper doors. The tatami floors have a pleasant rice straw scent to them that reminds Kurapika of his childhood. Cushions surround the low wooden table on the floor, enough for him to sit down and work on his writing. An arrangement of azalea flowers and framed photos of the seaside are displayed on the alcove built into the wall.

Gon even demonstrates that the doors in the back of the room lead to a secluded open-air hot springs bath with a sweeping view of the sea. With the warm hospitality emanating from their host, the tranquil quiet of their surroundings, the earthy scent in the air, this should be the perfect place for Kurapika to rest and work for the few days.

There’s only one problem.

 

  

 

 

His phone has been buzzing nonstop throughout the entire day. After forgetting to keep Leorio updated after his meeting with Kuroro, having disappeared from Meteor Entertainment's company building without notice, it's not surprising that Leorio thought he was actually kidnapped. Leorio always did have a tendency to overreact, but he agrees that he shouldn't have brushed him off like that.

He writes a quick message to Leorio, if only to appease him.   

> **dr.paladiknight**
> 
> He brought you to an inn?!
> 
> Next thing I know, you’re going to tell me there’s only one bed.
> 
> **kurapika**
> 
> There’s only one bed.
> 
> **dr.paladiknight**
> 
> OH MY GOD.
> 
> KURAPIKA, I’M WORRIED.
> 
> **kurapika**
> 
> Weren’t you the one who was most excited about the prospects of us being together?
> 
> **dr.paladiknight**
> 
> This is different! You don’t know what Kuroro’s actually like! I swear, if he even _says_ anything weird, I’m coming way there to get you immediately!

Too late for that.

Kurapika turns off the vibration from the incoming messages and slides his phone into his pocket. He’s going to get an earful from Leorio later. “This is the only room you have? Why is there only one bed?”

Gon tilts his head to the side in a display of childish confusion and curiosity. “Couples usually want one bed, right?”

Kuroro doesn’t hide his amused huff well enough, from where he's already flopped over one side of the bed. Either they truly appear like a couple, or news of their apparent relationship reached a small seaside town like this.

“Uh,” Kurapika says, making a note to throttle Kuroro later. “Can we switch to two futons instead?”

“Sure!” Gon looks unsure, but he nods anyway. “Let me go get them!”

The moment he leaves through the sliding doors, Kurapika turns to Kuroro, entirely unamused. Kuroro’s eyes shine with apologetic humor.

“Honestly, I expected there to be two futons.”

 

 

 

 

“Turn around.”

Kuroro’s languidly looking at Kurapika, chest-deep in the hot spring bath. “Why? There’s nothing to hide—”

“ _Turn around._ ”

With a resigned sigh, Kuroro does as he's told. The water splashes with his movement. Kurapika has a towel wrapped around his lower half, but when he’s certain that Kuroro won’t be looking back at him, the towel drops.

Kurapika’s nude. Kuroro’s nude. Honestly, there’s a lot that can happen right now.

Steam whorls up from the surface of the water. Kurapika knows that the water is safe to bathe in, but the shock of _hot_ still comes full force when he dips his feet into the bath and submerges himself. The water comes up to his shoulders, and his hair has been pulled back in a low ponytail to avoid getting soaked.

Kurapika settles against the rocks, a distance away from Kuroro, looking out into the serene blue ocean lapping at the bare beach of white sand. He smells cypress wood and sulfur instead of the sea. His skin melts into the heat, but his face feels cold.

The surface ripples as Kuroro slightly moves. His back is broad with the slightest etch of a tattoo on his side, and Kurapika feels as if he’s overstepping a boundary somehow, by bathing beside Kuroro and seeing his pale skin flush with the heat of the water. Kuroro asks, “Can I look now?”

The opaqueness of the water provides enough of a cover, that they wouldn’t be able to see much of each other. “Honestly, it’d be ideal if you stayed like this for the rest of the bath.”

Kuroro huffs a quiet laugh, turning back to look at Kurapika. They remain in silence, perfectly still, listening to the waves crashing over the rocky shoreline. Kurapika feels comfortable soaked in the warmth of the bath, the tension in his shoulders easing, feeling stripped of more than his clothing. So much still needs to be done during their time here, but the sense of urgency that’s plagued him for the last few months has been quelled, and his entire body exhales with him.

“What’s this festival that Gon mentioned?”

“It happens every October here.” Kuroro gazes into the horizon, tracing the outline of the other side of Totori. “Festival food stalls, wooden floats, moon viewing. I wasn’t able to attend last year, but the town really comes alive during this time.”

Kurapika’s tone grows wary. “We’re really not really here to sightsee, right?”

Kuroro hums in affirmation. “The festival culminates with a concert. One that you’ll be performing at.”

His words draw Kurapika out of his pleasant languor. Pressure rises in his blood. “ _What?_ ”

“We’ll finish at least one song while we’re here,” Kuroro says, most definitely not messing with him, “and I want you to make your comeback at the festival. This isn’t on a grand scale like those music programs we’ve both performed at, so—”

“How?” Kurapika chokes up, panic twisting in his abdomen. “There isn't enough time.”

“Yes, there is.” Kuroro’s voice is soft, reassuring. Kurapika would feel much better if they weren't discussing this in the nude, as if a deadline wasn't looming over them, but Kuroro looks at him as if he's the focus of Kuroro's entire world right now. “Calm down. I know that you’re more than capable of handling this. With me by your side, you’ll be more than ready when the time comes.”

Kuroro trusts him with terrifying sincerity, but the problem is, he doesn't know if he trusts Kuroro or even _himself_. His return to the spotlight was meant to be measured, carefully planned, but before he could even reject the idea, Kuroro already made the decision for him.

Kurapika only hopes that he'll be ready. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Totori is a fictional setting. The hot springs that they're visiting allows tattoos, so Kuroro has no issues there.
> 
> Thoughts? Prompts for future chapters? I'd love to know what you think about this so far. I hope the change in scenery was alright!
> 
> I would really like to finish this fic.
> 
> You can also follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/seiyunablog) or [Tumblr](http://seiyuna.tumblr.com/).


	4. Chapter 4

 

Sunlight brands itself onto the back of Kurapika’s neck. He keeps his hair in a low ponytail after Mito says that it suits him, especially when he wears the robe she gives him—one with a crimson diamond-pattern design reminding him of the earring on his left ear. Tradition dictates that visitors wear traditional dress during their stay in Totori, but he thinks that Kuroro suits their attire much more, when he wears his robe without a shirt underneath as if he’s here for a photoshoot.

Kurapika folds his arms, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his robe. The fabric is too light in the chill of the wind, but Kuroro doesn’t seem to mind even though his bare chest is exposed. He follows Kuroro along the promenade facing the ocean, blending with the residents of Totori when they all wear bright garments with flowing sleeves and wooden sandals that clack against paved stone. Preparations for the festival are in full swing, with everyone setting up stalls draped with painted banners of the island's mascot. Children speed past him and Kuroro, laughs ringing through the air and gazes wandering all around, but none look at them.

Laughter fades to the tones of the sea, singing a song that Kurapika wants to fall asleep to. Kuroro beckons him to the shore, urging him to hurry, when Kuroro’s the one who’s been telling him that they all the time in the world.

Procrastination isn’t familiar to him. Back when he had promotions, if he had the chance to go sightseeing, they weren’t on his days off. It was impossible when he had practice, performances, interviews, rehearsals—surrounded by fans who were screaming, always screaming.

The pace feels slower here, somehow. The beach is empty except for the two of them, but Kurapika finds companionship in the sound of the seabirds in the air and the waves on the shore. Wild saltspray roses bloom from the sand dunes, painting the area with splashes of white and pink, rippling with the wind sweeping across the beach. Beyond the flowers, Totori’s clear seascape shines in the sunlight, free of any vessels or people drifting on its surface. The sight belongs in photographs and postcards and now, it lives on in Kurapika’s memories.

Their sandals dip softly in the sand as Kuroro leads the way without looking back. His gait is certain, confident, but Kurapika’s steps falter as his feet brush against rough tufts of beach grass and washed-up ribbons of kelp. He probably isn’t wearing his sandals correctly, because his feet are stinging with the onset of blisters already.

Kuroro slows his pace, then comes to a stop. He turns to look back. “Kurapika?”

Either he’s going to show concern or ask Kurapika to strip off his clothes to go for a swim. It’s way too cold for the latter. “Yes?”

Kuroro’s phone appears from the sleeve of his robe, and he waves it nonchalantly. “Why don’t we take a picture?”

Kurapika doesn’t miss a single beat. “No.”

“Wh—” Kuroro looks deflated. “But you took one with Oito.”

“And she only uploaded it after I gave her permission. You, on the other hand, should have known better than to do something like that.”

“Oh,” Kuroro says, and he does look apologetic for the most part. His fans are prone to misunderstanding, whether his remarks are intentional or not. If their alleged relationship was never reported by the media, fans would have considered a friendship between them to be cute and endearing. Even flirtatious jokes about their interactions would surely have been accepted, fueling their homoerotic fantasies about their favorite artists. It's hypocritical of them to react this way, really. “I’ll delete the picture if you want me to. If I promise not to upload anything, will you take one with me?”

“No, I—” Kuroro gives him a look that reminds him of a kicked puppy. He’s not the kind of person to kick puppies. “Why do you want to?”

“Well,” Kuroro says, dragging the word out and looking Kurapika over. His gaze sweeps over him from head to toe, then back up again to meet his eyes. “I like taking pictures of pretty things. Attractive people.”

Kurapika's unsure of what to make of this. “No one’s around to witness your fanservice.”

“I’m not doing any.” Kuroro’s tone is light, but the look in his eyes is serious.

“You’re so weird.” _Annoyingly insistent_ , Kurapika doesn’t say. He sighs reluctantly. “If you won’t upload it, then—I guess it’s fine.”

Kuroro’s expression brightens, more genuine, and Kurapika chooses to ignore his satisfied hum. It would have bothered him more if he wasn’t so used to Leorio taking photos of him, so when Kuroro tells him to look at the phone camera, he does. While Kuroro poses beside him, he simply stares into the camera with a blank expression.

Kuroro snaps one photo with practiced precision, then shows him on the phone screen. The sun’s rays lend a softness to their skin, reflects diamonds across the expanse of azure waters in the background. Pleased with himself, Kuroro changes his wallpaper. “Nice.”

To anyone else, the picture makes it look like he’s the fan and Kurapika’s the celebrity. “Please don’t lose your phone.”

“Don’t worry,” Kuroro assures with a smile, then continues walking along the shore.

He stops every so often to crouch down and inspect the graveyard of pale seashells and exoskeletons at their feet. Kurapika wonders if he should be writing everything down in a notebook or documenting his surroundings with photos, but when Kuroro quietly admires the sea with his gaze, he does the same.

They spend most of the time at the edge of the sea and in this time, he’s done more than he has for the past few months with anyone that wasn’t Leorio.

It’s a little sad.

“The sea,” Kurapika starts to say, shivering with the gust of salt-tinged air. “What do you like so much about it?”

Kuroro arches a brow. “Are you finally making an effort to get to know me? I’m flattered.”

Kurapika snorts. “I just want to know what’s so special about it.”

“Hmm. I wonder.” Kuroro’s tone is contemplative, but not in the way that suggests he doesn’t know how to answer. Instead, he’s finding the right words to say. As the waves slide up to their sandals, the tide pulls back, lifting the sea like a veil to expose specks of colored stones and glass embedded in the sand beneath.

“I didn’t grow up in the nicest place, but I lived near the sea. I had a habit of collecting things—old books, marbles from Ramune bottles, seashells and sea glass from the shore.” Kuroro bends down to peer at the sand. From the slush of wet sand, he picks up a glimmering piece of sea glass, the color of vintage Coca-Cola bottles. “When I was ten, a bottle washed up ashore.”

Kurapika stands beside him, keeping a distance away from the tide. The waves collapse over each other in tumbles of seafoam, receding before his sandals get wet. “A message in a bottle?”

Kuroro nods. “An author wanted their story to be heard—wanted affirmation from someone other than himself—so he threw his message into the sea. Who knew that it would reach a place like Ryuuseigai?”

 _Ryuuseigai_.

The kind of place that belongs on the cover of National Geographic—and not in a good way. It’s something that no one else would know about Kuroro unless he told them himself. The image is stark in his mind—Ryuuseigai's shores crippled by waves and waves of refuse and plastic debris, accumulating from the waste amassing in the waters. The government shouldn’t have dealt with the unwanted by throwing them aside, but that’s exactly what they did.

Kurapika would have never imagined that someone like Kuroro grew up in a place like that, when he gives the impression of a celebrity born with a silver spoon, but there’s a lot he doesn’t know about him. He imagines a young Kuroro searching through fragments of bottles and glass tossed on the shore, broken, polished smooth by waves, only to find beauty in something that the sea discarded.

“It was the neatest thing. Seeing the sea extend all the way to the horizon never failed to leave with me awe, but I never expected that the world beyond could ever reach me.” Kuroro stares toward the water, and Kurapika follows his gaze. The sea and sky blend seamlessly into a blue so vivid that his fingers burn for his phone camera, but he wonders what else Kuroro sees. “So I wrote a song, folded it up in a bottle, and sent it adrift on the water.”

Kurapika’s voice grows softer. “And?”

“I don’t know if anyone ever found it or tried writing back to me,” Kuroro says quietly. “But I wanted to find that answer, so I went to find it myself instead of waiting it to come to me. I wanted to be aboard one of those boats traveling beyond Ryuuseigai, so I moved to Tokyo.”

Kuroro closes his hand over the glass, and Kurapika understands what he means. The distance separating Kurapika’s home from Tokyo was too far to comprehend, too distant to be reached. Eventually, he chose to pursue his dreams, even if it meant leaving his family and not looking back.

There’s a world of differences between them, but the revelation bridges the gap between them a little more. Ten-year-old Kuroro delivered a message in a bottle across the ocean to share his story with someone in another part of the world, even if it never found them. Ten-year-old Kurapika sent a folded paper swan across the river in hope it would travel far from his home, but it crumpled and ripped along the way.

Both of them longed for something more, something that would never come to them if they remained where they were, but whereas Kuroro rose to the very top of the industry, Kurapika disappeared, forgotten in a sea of artists trying to make it.

Kurapika refuses to be forgotten.

“But you return to the sea,” Kurapika says. It’s different from the way he deliberately isolates himself from Rukuso. If he doesn’t contact anyone, then he thinks of himself as not burdening anyone, responsible for no one except himself.

“Because it feels like coming home.” Kuroro rises to his feet and the tide shoves in, staining his sandals with seafoam. “The sea gives me broken things polished by its waters. Stories that should have never found their way, but somehow did.” Maybe it’s the storyteller in Kuroro, because there’s something about the way he says things that should be read from pages instead of being said aloud. He motions for Kurapika to hold his hand out. The piece of sea glass falls into Kurapika’s hand, gleaming a clear blue-green like Kuroro’s earrings. “The sea—”

“—is beautiful.”

The words escape Kurapika’s lips in a single breath. He holds up the weathered glass against the shining sun above. It’s something thrown away by human hands, smoothed over by the waters of the sea. It shouldn’t be anything special—just another piece meant to be part of a beachcomber’s collection—but Kuroro has a way of making things seem more than what they appear to be.

It’s something worth appreciating, like the way Kuroro seems to appreciate him.

“Yes,” Kuroro says. The wind picks up around them. Kurapika’s hair flutters against his neck. “Yes, it is.”

The ocean’s song swells in his ears, and he can’t hear anything else.

 

 

 

 

Even when the sea falls to darkness, Kurapika can hear the gentle sigh of its waves through the walls of the room. Having left dinner with Gon and Mito early, letting Kuroro continue the conversation on his own, he finds the warmth of his futon and the softness of its covers.

Kurapika’s never been particularly good at relaxing. He only exists in two states: asleep or working himself to the point of exhaustion. It’s difficult to explain what happens when he finds himself in the dance studio or the desk of his bedroom, because his mind and body become completely immersed in his work. There are no excuses for yielding to his limits and there are no excuses now, when there are songs that need to be written and a performance to prepare for.

He can't deal with any distractions or mistakes right now. The back of his neck is sensitive and irritated from sun exposure, putting him in an even worse mood. He turns to lie on his side instead.

The anxiousness refuses to settle in his stomach, making him consider withdrawing from the concert, but he’s never been one to back down from a challenge. If he knew the stories he should tell, then maybe he could actually write them.

All he can think of are his half-finished songs scrawled in old notebooks and thrown haphazardly around his bedroom; his completed songs set aside by Kuroro’s hands.

His first album was what Nostrade called a cautious debut, with ballads written by Basho and composed by Senritsu. With those two established as in-house artists, Nostrade Media developed its trademark sound, but their songs were never as dramatic as Kurapika wanted them to be. Instead, they took on a subtler, more ephemeral approach that was restrained in terms of vocal performance. His voice became as elusive as a whisper in someone’s ear, a quiet breeze in the nighttime.

Despite the softness of the lyrics—remembering all that was loved and lost, finding beauty in the everyday moments of life, seeking hope for the future—Senritsu brought an orchestral quality to his music. Oito called one of the B-sides from this album her  _absolute_ _favorite_ , especially since it was used as a soundtrack for a romance drama—the kind where the main characters confessed their love under a shower of blossom petals.

His second album branched out with uptempo EDM tracks, not quite highlighting his vocal strengths, but possessing melodies orienting towards not only sounding well but also performing well. The title track relied heavily on visual choreography, but the repetitive sound was so addictive that it played at nightclubs from Shibuya all the way to Manhattan. This solidified his place on the top of the music charts for months.

It was clear that people loved his music.

Kurapika didn’t.

His newfound success led to discussions of what kind of concepts he would return with next, if there were other genres of music he wanted to do, if he had other talents instead of looking pretty and singing songs produced for him.

It was easy being fifteen and getting to know fame for the first time, even if it meant trading his passions for everyone’s cheers. He trained for all those years only to end up singing songs with stories he never experienced, never quite related to.

It’s not so easy being twenty and looking back on everything he’s done and wondering if it was all for nothing. Performance thrives in his blood, but it’s one thing to endure his fair share of criticism over the years, and another thing entirely to hear it come from Kuroro, for him to say that he isn’t able to inspire people through the words he writes.

Kurapika’s fingers curl tight into the comforter. Jaw set and teeth grit, he draws the thick covers over his shoulders, smothering himself in it. Something inside him rises like the tide, threatens to overflow and overtake his calm, but he pushes back.

 _Enough_ of doubting himself.

The sound of a key turning interrupts the silence of the room. Light slants through the doors as Kuroro steps into the darkness.

“Do you always sleep this early?” Kuroro asks, as if fully aware that he’s awake.

“I stick to my routines,” Kurapika eventually answers. For someone who enjoys routines, there’s currently a lot of unpredictability in his life, more so since he became involved with Kuroro. “How was the rest of dinner?”

“Just fine. Mito said to come down for coffee tomorrow morning.” Kuroro steps to where the other futon has been laid out, right beside Kurapika’s own, and lets out a soft laugh. “It’s a little too early to sleep, but I think I’ll join you.”

The sound of clothing being divested rustles through the air, and Kurapika shuts his eyes tight, fervently hoping that Kuroro doesn't sleep in the nude.

After a moment, Kuroro slides beneath the covers of his futon. If they had more pillows, then Kurapika surely would’ve set up a makeshift barrier between them. “Are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine,” Kurapika says, unaware of what prompted the question. It’s too dark to see the expression on Kuroro’s face, but his skin prickles with the awareness that Kuroro’s only a hair’s breadth away, close enough that he can feel his body heat in the space between them. “Just uncertain.”

“Do you not want to do the concert?”

“No. I mean, yes.” Kurapika draws in a sharp breath. “It’s just difficult right now. Writing songs might not be anything new to you, but this is a huge deal for me.” The sea rises within him, obscuring words in his throat, making his lungs feel very tight, and he’s helpless to stop it. And when he speaks again, his voice comes out too quiet, too shaky. “I don’t like that I don’t know what to do about my writing because I don’t know the story I’m supposed to tell.”

“Kurapika?”

Kurapika can hear the surprise in Kuroro’s voice, but he continues. “Knowing that I’ll be performing in front of an audience without having any preparation done so far is making me far too anxious and I don’t know where I should start. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, even if you’re here by my side—”

“Kurapika, hold on—”

“I’m grateful that you want to help me. I really am.” With all the conviction he has in the world, he says, “So I’m going to perform regardless.” It feels better to hear himself say it aloud. “I’m going to finish writing my songs and perform in front of everyone. It’s a worse feeling to think about you thinking I can’t do it.”

“I—” Kuroro’s breath hitches. “Wow.”

The world has its attention on him, and the stage is his now. Kuroro’s given him this opportunity, and he’s resolved to follow through with it. He has every right to berate himself for his shortcomings, but if there’s one thing he refuses to allow, it’s letting anyone else think that he isn’t capable.

“I wouldn’t have expected anything less from you," Kuroro says, awed, "but I'll be here for you the entire time. I won't let you fail.”

It sounds like a promise.

When Kurapika doesn’t respond, choosing to wait for his breathing to even out instead, silence stretches between them for some time. He's too embarassed by his sudden candor to speak. They lay there without moving, listening to the padded footsteps and creaks echoing across the hallway, the faraway wind rustling the trees, the water meeting the shore. It’s not an uncomfortable silence but more of a tentative stillness, as if words remain unsaid in the air.

He doesn’t feel that troubled at the fact that Kuroro’s lying beside him. In the time that he’s known of Kuroro, he’s never heard of Kuroro going public with a romantic relationship, or even being caught spending the night with someone else. He’s been involved with every rumor possible with each of bandmates, paired up with Camilla Hui Guo Rou for aesthetic appeal, even with Hisoka—but who hasn’t gotten into a scandal with Hisoka?

“I can’t sleep,” Kuroro eventually says.

Kurapika huffs. He feels calmer, now that he's gotten his concerns off his chest. “Can I ask you something then?”

He makes out the shadow of Kuroro propping himself up on an elbow, leaning over to look over at him. “Anything.”

Kurapika marks a contemplative pause, considers the sincerity in Kuroro’s answer, before he finds the words he wants to say. He settles back against his pillow and stares up into the darkness. “How often do you go home?”

He can feel Kuroro looking at him, though there’s not much he could possibly see. “It’s difficult when I’m busy with my schedules, but I return as often as I can. Anywhere from once a month to once a year. What about you?”

“Not often,” Kurapika murmurs, as though he’s confiding one of his most well-guarded secrets. Perhaps, he is. He returned once in four years if only because Leorio asked to come along at the time.

“Are you not on good terms with your family?”

“That’s—” His voice grows hushed even though Kuroro’s the only one in the room. He used to do this with Pairo as children, simply lying down in their beds and whispering about everything on their minds, from the stories they found in his father’s study to what it would be like one day if Kurapika really became an idol. “That’s not it. I just haven’t spoken to them in a while.”

“Not even a phone call?”

“They don’t have cell phones or anything like that. They all live in a small village in the countryside.”

“You could always send letters to them,” Kuroro says thoughtfully, not at all astonished by his revelation. “Who do you have waiting for you back home?”

“My parents and my younger cousin. He’s my younger brother and childhood friend and everything at the same time,” Kurapika says softly, his cheek pressing into his pillow. He doesn’t divulge much about himself, but when it comes to his loved ones, somehow he has much more to say. “He struggled with health problems ever since we were young, mostly with his vision, so he was never really able to watch me perform.”

“But he listened to your music,” Kuroro says.

“He did—” Kurapika corrects himself. “He does. When I earned enough money to pay for his eye surgery, I went home to visit. That was the last time I saw them.”

“That’s really impressive.” Kuroro’s the kind of person to grant the wishes of his fans with practiced ease, but judging from the faint wonder in his tone, he isn’t saying that simply to be nice. “Did they oppose your debut?”

“No way,” Kurapika breathes out. “They’ve always been supportive of me, even if the rest of my village admonished those who wanted to leave. I thought that—if I were to return, I needed to have brought back something or _become_ something they could be proud of. I didn’t want to return as the person I used to be.”

At the time, he wanted everything but the familiarity of his home and the confines of its primeval forest, where the trees spread around and arched over him like a cathedral. His family respected his decision when he left, believing in him as someone who would bring about change to the conventions of their people, even though he’s barely done anything to prove them right. At the memory, his chest swells with an unmistakable longing, an ache in his heart that speaks of absence in his life.

“I think,” Kuroro says, his voice growing low, “your family would be proud of you regardless. Their love should be unconditional, not something that you have to prove you deserve. Don’t you think so?”

His voice is so steady, so sure. He says things without caring how he says them, always truthful. He has a way of making things sound simple, somehow always knowing how to say the right thing, even when what Kurapika feels is far from it. Where does it all come from anyway?

But even if Kurapika registers what he said, the words curl around his head like mist. He didn’t come here to talk about _feelings_ with Kuroro the entire time. He didn’t leave his family to become an artist with one signature song to his name, only to fade into obscurity. He should have something to show for all his efforts, but all he has now is the heavy weight in his chest and the stiffness in his limbs from exerting himself after long, unforgiving nights. “I don’t want to disappoint them with how I am now.”

The pause after that is abrupt, and Kuroro asks, “Don’t you miss them?”

Kurapika swallows, feeling himself choke up. It takes a great deal of effort to continue speaking. “I do.”

He could send letters to them, but penning words on paper is just as difficult as writing a song. He doesn’t want to have to continue telling them how much he misses them, reassuring them that he’s fine just so that they won’t have to worry. Complaining about how difficult his hiatus is or mentioning how homesick he feels, isn’t a privilege that he’s earned yet.

“None of this is your fault,” Kuroro reminds him, careful and patient and _kind_. He lies back down on the futon, turning on his side to face Kurapika. It probably shows on his face, but it’s a look that Kurapika can’t stomach right now. “I think that your situation reflects your company’s management, because your first two albums demonstrated how just well you were doing. Nostrade should’ve given you new releases to build your momentum as a solo artist, and for you to disappear after all that success, your company had to have to messed up internally.” As an afterthought, he adds, “No offense.”

“Mm,” is all Kurapika can say. Tiredness hums in his bones, but Kuroro’s words are as crisp and clear as the windchimes hanging outside the inn, filling his chest with something that feels like relief.

“If you’re on good terms with your family, then they should be happy to hear from you. It’s not like you don’t have good news either. You’re making your return to the industry and—” Kuroro pauses. “You allegedly have a boyfriend now. I think you have some explaining to do.”

That draws a laugh from Kurapika, restrained but very real. Maybe, if he considers what Kuroro says, holding back from contacting his family was never the right decision in the first place.

A soft breath escapes him, something between a yawn and a sigh. He takes this as a warning to refrain from deviating from his routine any further. His thoughts are quiet, leaving him a strange sense of peace. Weariness laps at his mind like the darkness of the sea, drawing him in and sweeping him away with the undertide.

Kurapika shifts beneath the covers of his futon and closes his eyes. “Good night, Kuroro.”

Through the haze of sleepiness, he vaguely realizes this is the first time he’s said Kuroro’s name out loud. He ends their conversation here, just so it’s the last thing he remembers before he falls asleep.

It’s a very new feeling to open up to someone, but maybe, he might not mind so much after all.

Too quiet that he almost doesn’t hear, Kuroro says, “Good night.”

 

 

 

 

Morning slips into their room like a thief, stealing away precious hours of sleep. Just as Kurapika closes his eyes again, comprehension suddenly dawns upon him, of where he is and with whom. There’s no way he can go back to sleep now, when time is trickling through his fingers like sand.

If there’s one time of day he hates, it’s late morning, because it reminds him of everything he’s yet to accomplish for the day. As he blinks against the sunlight filtering through wooden lattice windows, he finds Kuroro facing him, eyes closed and dark lashes fanned out in slumber.

There’s something about seeing him like this, all soft edges and dark hair loose around his face and over white linens. On stage, both he and Kuroro wear only the slightest amount of makeup—kohl lining their eyes, gloss coating their lips, concealer covering all imperfections. It doesn’t make that much of a difference, now that he’s able to observe Kuroro’s features up close.

The tip of Kuroro's nose is a light pink, almost like a blush over his fair skin. He doesn’t know what to do with this information—only knows that it gives him an answer to the question of whether Kuroro would tan or burn in the sun. He’ll remind both of them to wear sunscreen next time.

Right above Kuroro's eyebrows, is his cross insignia. Now that’s something Kurapika’s been wanting to know—if Kuroro drew the cross on himself every morning or if it was actually a permanent tattoo. Something inexplicable compels him to reach out to brush the hair away from Kuroro’s face, to trace the lines of the tattoo.

“Am I that handsome?”

Kurapika freezes, heartbeat suddenly picking up. He retracts his hand the moment Kuroro opens his eyes, staring at him sleepily with a languid smile.

“Um,” Kurapika says, immediately sitting up. He must not be fully awake, because he cannot believe he just tried to do that. “Good morning.”

“You’re up early.”

“It’s late in the morning,” Kurapika points out, checking his phone again for good measure. He untangles himself from the bedding and rises to his feet, then quickly folds up the comforter atop his futon to give his hands something else to do. “Um, I’m going to get some work done.”

Kuroro closes his eyes, still tucked into his pillow. “Go ahead. I’ll join you later.”

Kurapika gets dressed before leaving through the sliding doors, unsteady on his feet on the way out.

 

 

 

 

“Is Kuroro treating you well?” Mito asks him.

“He’s treating me just fine?” Kurapika answers against the cup of coffee against his lips. They’re sitting outside at one of the broad wooden tables in the gardens, quietly enjoying the coffee that Mito brewed earlier in the morning. Clusters of vibrant red spider lilies and pale gold chrysanthemums surround them, breathing their perfume into the air, mingling with the scents of the gingko trees.

“I see.” Mito’s leaning on one elbow, watching as a butterfly gently lands on one of the lilies. “Do you two get to meet often?”

Kurapika sets his cup down right next to his notebook on the table. “Huh?”

“It’s probably difficult with your schedules, but I’m hoping that he spends enough time with you. It’s nice that he brought you all the way here with him, but—” Mito furrows her brow, concern apparent in her delicate features. “He’s not thinking of this as a short-term relationship, is he? I’ll make sure to talk some sense into him if he is.”

“Ah,” Kurapika suddenly says, because he never did clear up the misunderstanding. “I’m not—we’re not—”

Before he can finish speaking, the door at the side of the inn slides open. Gon peeks out from the inside. “Aunt Mito! Can you help me with our new guests?”

“Be right there,” Mito calls back, standing up from the bench. “I’ll catch up with you later, Kurapika. Enjoy your coffee—Kuroro always drinks this brand whenever he comes here.”

As she smiles at him, filled with a mother’s warmth, Kurapika can only nod along.

Left to his own thoughts, Kurapika stares at the lined white paper. Before, he would have found all of this thoughts to be worthy of being recorded, but he feels more selective now. Even holding a pen feels strange.

He’s always had the habit of thinking like a scientist and moving like an artist, and he can’t afford to spend too much time being overly meticulous now. Nothing should concern him besides his writing. Until he knows what he wants to do with this song and what vision he wants to show in his performance, Kuroro can’t help him.

He never truly had the freedom to consider this before, when there was always someone else to tell him what his music should sound like. Another producer or company representative would be there to dictate the direction of his music, but with Kuroro here, things are different now. He carves out several attempts with difficulty, penning several lines about his surroundings—how the heat of the sun is warmer here, the wind carrying the scent of hot sand and cypress, the people not caring who he is and where he comes from—but he doesn’t have a story.

All of his previous attempts at songwriting had fallen short of what he wanted to achieve. Now he wants to write something wonderful on these pages, so that one day, they’ll turn into melodies that resonate with people’s hearts. But how does he create something that has no vocabulary, when he feels so much that he’s never been able to speak to his family about it?

Kuroro thinks that he’s capable of too much, that he’s meant to do this and has always been. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to live up to those expectations. Whereas Kuroro makes the world burn with his music, Kurapika’s the spark of a fire that has yet to be kindled. He doesn’t know how to start the flame that Kuroro wants to see in him.

He considers tearing the page out, but as he thinks it over, none of his efforts should be treated as though they were worthless. No matter what anyone else thinks. The impulse dies as he flips to a clean page, absently thinking of what a letter to his family would look like. After his conversation with Kuroro from last night, he doesn’t want to run away any longer.

As he starts addressing his mother, father, Pairo on the first line of the paper, the awareness that he’s writing something unlike anything he’s ever done before, sweeps him up in a fever, compelling him to write without stopping, making him lose track of time.

It’s like stripping himself down to who he is at the very core—not performer and singer and dancer Kurapika—but the son and friend to his family that he hasn’t seen in years, supporting him regardless if he deserves it or not. It’s a different kind of love, the kind that reminds him of how his mother pulled him into an embrace at the airport, telling him that she’ll always be watching him.

Only now he’s the one thinking of her.

Kurapika’s writing just enough. No excessive words, no complex embellishments—only a calm, reverent love for his family instead. For all that his hiatus is difficult and disappointing, for all his fears of disappointing his family and himself, it would be even worse to never perform again.

This time, he’s not desperate to prove something to them. It’s an acknowledgment of another beginning, of what he still needs to do during his time here. A promise that they’ll see him on stage again. A promise that he'll return, because they'll always be there for him no matter what.

It’s not perfect.

It’s not complete.

It’s not a song, but it has the potential to be. Several lines are crossed out and there are many corrections to be made, but it’s something new yet familiar and tangible to him. Warm and loving.

And if anyone were to ask what the story is, Kurapika would answer—

Homecoming.

 

 

 

 

By the time Kurapika’s filled several pages of his notebook, Kuroro hasn’t joined him for coffee yet. He shakes off the ache in his wrists, then sets his pen aside and closes the book. It’s a good stopping point for now.

Kurapika returns inside the inn, making his way down the hallway, when he sees a young man locking the door of a room next to theirs. Gon mentioned that more guests are expected to arrive as the festival approaches, but their inn should still be quieter than others in the area.

He takes out his room key, about to open the door to their room, when the man turns to him.

“Kurapika?”

Kurapika stills, then slowly turns to face him. Recognition flickers in the man’s eyes. His gaze is stern, accentuated by his arched eyebrows, but the lilt in his voice makes him sound friendlier than he appears. “You’re Kurapika, aren’t you?”

“Sorry,” Kurapika says, trying his best to sound neither sharp nor defensive, “but who are you?”

He’s wary. He has words prepared, like knives set out before him, but there’s no need to use them. The man doesn’t appear to be a typical fan of his, when his curled hair is carefully styled and his dress seems military in nature. A lanyard hangs around his neck, bearing his name and affiliation, and Kurapika should have taken another look before potentially coming off as rude to him.

“I’m Bhavimaina,” the man says, but the name doesn’t ring a bell. “I debuted under Kakin Empire a few months ago, so that makes me your _kouhai_. Should I call you _senpai_ or—?”

“Just my name is fine,” Kurapika says quickly, because Bhavimaina seems to be a few years older than him. If he's an idol, then he has sharper features than most, but Kurapika shouldn't be judging him by appearance even if that's what the industry has conditioned him to do. Somewhat apologetic, he offers his hand out for a handshake. 

Bhavimaina stares at his outstretched hand, a moment long enough to start to make him feel uncomfortable, before grasping his hand and giving a firm shake.

“It’s nice seeing you here. I was invited to perform at the festival,” Bhavimaina reveals, tapping against the name tag attached to the lanyard. A holographic sticker of a cartoon foxbear shines at the edge of the card. “Did you come all the way here to perform as well?”

Kurapika doesn't want to reveal too much just yet. “Something like that.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing you on stage again,” Bhavimaina says, as though he’s watched him perform before. “Are you working on some new music then?”

“Well—”

Kurapika startles as the door in front of him slides open. Kuroro blinks at him, hair tousled with bedhead, but his confusion at seeing him standing outside quickly slides to faint annoyance.

“So you came here with Kuroro Lucifer,” Bhavimaina states, lacking any inflection. 

Kuroro leans against the door with his arms crossed, staring at their neighbor with a look that tells Kurapika _it’s way too early for this_ , even though it’s nearly the afternoon. “Is there a problem?”

Bhavimaina looks between the two of them, then raises his shoulders in an effortless shrug. “No, not really. I’m not the kind of person to discriminate.”

“That’s good to know,” Kuroro says mildly, but Kurapika can hear the tension underlying his voice. There's usually a cheerful cadence in his tone, whether he's being truthful or not, but the lack of it makes Kurapika question the faint change in his behavior. He arches a brow, making no effort to add onto the conversation. 

“Well then,” Bhavimaina says, raising a hand to wave casually. “Sorry for taking up for your time. I’ll see you around, Kurapika."

“Yeah,” Kurapika says, breathing out all the tension that gathered in his frame, “see you.”

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * This was mentioned in chapter three, but the mascot of Totori is the foxbear! This is an animal native to Whale Island, as shown in the first chapter of the manga.
> 
> I like Bhavimaina, but not the official spelling of his name. I'm looking forward to breaking his heart. 
> 
> Please let me know you think of this fic so far or if you have any suggestions! +:) It happens to be my longest fic yet! If you read this fic back when I first uploaded it, this was originally meant to only be four chapters with a focus on PWP. But now that we've crossed four chapters, I've decided to develop Kuroro and Kurapika's relationship a bit more before we get to the NSFW chapters.
> 
> Until next time, I'll leave you [a song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zzBNUmwXzik&frags=pl%2Cwn) that I listened to while writing this chapter.
> 
> Feel free to reach out to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/seiyunablog) or [Tumblr](http://seiyuna.tumblr.com/).


	5. Chapter 5

 

“I didn’t expect to see him here.”

Kuroro slides the door shut behind him, but instead of looking at Kurapika, he stares at the floor. Something about his expression falls short of usual, when his gaze holds an absent sort of contemplation, too distant from what he can comprehend.

Kurapika strives for a conversational tone when he asks, “Do you know him?”

“More or less.” Kuroro sinks down onto one of the cushions, crossing his legs and leaning his back against the low wooden table. For a moment Kurapika thinks that’s all he has to say, but then he looks up and meets his eyes. “He was one of the contestants in Produce 101 Season 6. Eliminated during the semi-finals since he was older than most of the other contenders—but Kakin decided to debut him as a solo artist. I think he would’ve been a good leader if they debuted him in a group, but I suppose something about him didn’t mesh well with the others.”

“I don’t really keep up with shows like that.” Kurapika sits on one of the cushions next to him, surprised that the show even extended as far as its sixth season. He could never tell anyone apart on the show if he had to pick from 101 idol trainees to vote for. “I didn’t think you did either.”

“I don’t,” Kuroro says, shrugging. “Oito voted for him faithfully. You have no idea how much she cried when he didn’t make it to the final 11.”

Kurapika stifles a smile at her dedication. Nostrade mentioned, once, that he would never send any of their trainees to those kinds of survival programs, making Kurapika secretly thankful that he never had to participate.

It takes an entertainment agency years of financial investment to debut an idol group, only to potentially never see a profit. On the other hand, it takes a broadcasting company a few months to assemble a group through public opinion, eventually pulling in the majority of profits from the show and management of the winning group’s activities. Even if one of their trainees gains exposure from the show, the earnings of someone who made their way into the winning group wouldn’t benefit the company.

Kurapika chooses not to watch these shows because they force trainees—more often than not _teenagers_ —into a stressful environment before they’ve had the chance to develop themselves or learn how to handle harsh criticism from strangers who only know them from the other side of the screen. He thinks of the older trainees with six, seven years of training, eliminated only because they don’t have the appearance that the public favors. Reputations damaged so badly that they might not ever debut.

These are the people who are thrust back into their agency, hearts weighed with too much uncertainty about where they’ll go from there. But Bhavimaina’s a _survivor_ , and that’s impressive in and of itself.

“So,” Kurapika says, slow and careful, “is it a bad thing that he’s here?”

“I don’t know.” Kuroro’s frown deepens slightly, enough that although Kurapika’s still learning the nuances in his expressions, he knows enough to notice when something bothers him. “You don’t have to worry about Mito releasing any information to the fans about our stay here, but I didn’t expect we’d meet anyone else who would know us.” He runs a hand through his hair, pushing his bangs out of his eyes and letting out a sigh. “If anything, I’d be concerned that, well, _you_ were uncomfortable.”

Kurapika shakes his head. “I think I’m fine.”

That doesn't seem to be the answer that Kuroro’s searching for. An urge nags at him to do something, anything, when tension still weighs in the air around them.

“Do you want to get something to eat?” Kurapika gestures aimlessly around him. He hopes that his attempt to lighten the mood doesn't fall flat. “We don’t have to stay here right now.”

“Yeah?” Kuroro eases up, because his expression softens into one that he wears when things are more casual and conversational between them. “Yeah. I’d like to go out into town and get breakfast.”

“It’s past noon,” Kurapika points out.

“Then,” Kuroro says with a quiet smile, “let’s get something else to eat.”

He has good control over the kind of presence he wants to exude, but for some reason, that bothers Kurapika more. He should be the one being reassured by Kurapika, not the other way around.

“Sure,” Kurapika says. “I still don't quite understand traditions around here, but is it fine if I dress normally today? My feet hurt from wearing those sandals yesterday.”

From what he can see, people in Totori wear traditional garments wherever they go. He doesn’t mind standing out from the rest if it means that he can actually walk in his shoes without limping and waking up the next day without skin chafed raw.

Kuroro suddenly shifts closer to him, putting his weight on one knee.

Kurapika blinks rapidly, drawing his legs back. “What are you—”

“Just checking,” Kuroro murmurs.

He carefully lifts Kurapika’s right ankle off the floor, searching for any sign of injuries. He moves his foot up and down, but nothing elicits a pained reaction from Kurapika. The unexpected touch just makes him shiver.

“It’s no big deal,” Kurapika mumbles, trying not to sound flustered. It’s one thing to be aware of Kuroro’s presence around him, but another to actually feel his warmth so keenly against his skin. “Just had some blisters yesterday.”

“You have to take care of your voice as a singer.” Kuroro’s voice borders on unsettling, how soft it is. He wraps his hand around his ankle, where all the scars from his training regimen have been carved into his skin. “Your body as a dancer.”

“I know.” Kurapika isn't some newcomer who needs to be taken care of. There couldn’t be anything worse than the stress fractures he had to endure during his trainee days, risking permanent damage to his ankles. The integrity of his body was a price he was forced to pay to get this far with his performances.

Kuroro gently places his foot down, then stands up to retrieve a duffle bag from the corner of the room. “You should wear your old shoes, but you can borrow some clothes from me.”

“Did you really plan the trip this far ahead?”

Kuroro laughs a little. “I only brought my laptop so I could work on composing while you write, but I have some practice clothes from when we were on tour.” He hands the bag over to Kurapika, letting him pick whatever he wants to wear. “They should fit you fine, but Mito might be a little disappointed today.”

“I’ll tell her that I’ll wear something nice for the festival,” Kurapika decides.

The bag is full of clothes neatly rolled up, most of them black in color than anything else. He reaches inside, but his fingers brush against something soft and foam-like in texture. He pulls it out from the bag.

He stares at it, disbelieving. “You wear shoe insoles?”

“Ah.” Kuroro clears his throat, and this is probably the closest he’ll ever get to seeing him embarrassed. “I forgot those were in there. It’s fine when you’re performing by yourself on stage, but it gets hard when Shal and Paku are taller than you— _especially_ when she wears heels.”

“I can’t believe,” Kurapika says, unable to help the laugh that escapes him, sounding more like a huff of amusement, “that Kuroro Lucifer has a complex about his height.” He doesn’t miss the way Kuroro’s eyebrows raise, how it takes him a few moments to realize he’s being teased. “This is like those guys who lie about their height on dating apps—”

“That’s not it.” Kuroro tries to sound serious and fails. He reaches out to swipe it from Kurapika’s hands, but misses just as Kurapika turns away. That startles another laugh from him, and he actually _feels_ it rise from his chest this time. “ _Dating apps?_ Don’t tell me you actually use them—”

“Of course not.” Kurapika quells his laughter down to a smile, then tosses the insoles back into the bag. “I think you look fine without them.”

Kuroro’s mouth parts wordlessly.

Kurapika tilts his head, echoing the way Kuroro does when he’s curious. “What?”

“You,” Kuroro starts, finding his voice again. “You should laugh more. It’s pretty.”

It’s a strikingly honest thing to say, but very characteristic of how Kuroro has a habit of saying things that are more embarrassing than they should be. Kurapika’s only response for him is a half-hearted huff.

Kurapika returns his attention to the bag in his hands, choosing to pick up a plain black sweater. It looks like any other sweater, only that the tag says _Balenciaga._ His face scrunches up as he scrutinizes the front and back. “You can find something like this at a department store. I can’t believe you’d wear this to practice—”

“It’s sponsored,” Kuroro answers lightly. “All of my black sweaters have very subtle differences, if you care to know.” While some people wear the same clothes in different colors, Kuroro wears the same styles in the same colors. “You’re not going to find anything more reasonable, so pick whatever you like.”

Kurapika spends some time sifting through his clothes, hoping to find something more worn and faded so he doesn’t feel like he’s owing Kuroro something, but Kuroro’s right. He can’t find anything that belongs in a Don Quijote, so he ends up settling for the sweater and a pair of loose jeans. He murmurs his thanks to Kuroro for letting him borrow his clothes, then retreats to their bathroom to get changed.

Even if Kuroro doesn’t particularly care, Kurapika handles his clothes carefully, making to note to keep them clean throughout the day. The sweater is slightly big on him, falling over his shoulders lower than they should and ending over his upper thigh. He rolls up the jeans twice to create a cuff over his ankles, but as he casts a quick glance at his reflection in the mirror, he finds that the ensemble doesn’t look too bad although it's looser than it should be. It's better than wearing pants so tight that they may as well be cutting off circulation to important parts of the body. 

He returns to the room, where Kuroro has changed into more casual clothes too. Beneath his leather jacket, he’s wearing a plain white shirt to contrast with his black jeans, distressed at the knees. Perhaps he changed because he didn’t want Kurapika to feel out of place.

Kuroro just stares at him, making him wonder if he’s been stunned into wordlessness again. Then, he says, “I guess this is what people mean by boyfriend clothes.”

There’s that flirtatious lilt in his voice again, but this time, it doesn’t sound the same as those carefully practiced words just for performance’s sake. Slowly, Kurapika brings a hand to his own face, feeling his cheeks flush with delayed embarrassment.

He turns away from Kuroro, thinking of slapping himself on the face to get a hold of himself. This makes absolutely no sense—Kuroro’s attempts shouldn’t be thought of as _exclusive_ to him. Maybe, it’s because of how Kuroro's unabashedly staring at him that he unconsciously reacted this way.

“If I was caught wearing this by your fans,” Kurapika says, fighting back the warmth on his face, “we’d be done for.”

His gaze burns at Kurapika's back. “Then, it’s a good thing they aren’t here to see this.”

Kurapika exhales deeply, enough that some strands of his hair flutter around his face. He hopes that his blush has receded when he looks back at Kuroro. “Please, don’t push it.”

The mirth softens around the edges of Kuroro's mouth. “Push what?”

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” Kurapika says, his words lacking any heat. He swipes the room key from the table, heading to the door. “Let’s go already.”

As he walks ahead, down the hallway, Kuroro catches up to him. “What do you mean?”

Kurapika doesn’t think that Kuroro could be _that_ oblivious about his behavior around him, when he seems perfectly aware of his social graces toward everyone else. “You don’t have to play up your public persona when you’re with me.”

Kuroro sounds genuinely confused. “Is that what you think?”

“Not always,” Kurapika admits, because he’s experienced firsthand how serious Kuroro takes his work, how critical yet trusting he is of Kurapika to handle his feedback. It’s this other side of him, the one with overflowing charm and nonchalance, never failing to woo, that makes him think twice. “I know you’re not being insincere, but sometimes, it sounds like you’re speaking to me as if I’m one of your fans.”

Kuroro stops for a moment. “I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable.”

It’s not the answer that he expects. Kuroro thinks he’s overstepped some boundaries, when there were never lines drawn in the first place.

“That’s not it,” Kurapika assures him, then pauses. “I don’t understand why you like teasing me like this, when you know I’m not going to react like one of your fans.” He's not going to fall all over Kuroro just because of something he says, and certainly doesn’t plan on reciprocating even if it isn’t expected of him. “People are going to misunderstand if you keep doing this, and—I just want you to be yourself.”

Kuroro tilts his head in question, as though there’s no reason he wouldn’t be. “But, I am being myself.” He sounds composed and self-assured, as always. “You don't believe me?”

“I’m not sure.” Kurapika leaves through one of the side doors leading to the gardens. The sun feels warmer against his face today. He turns around to face Kuroro, where he’s still gazing at him steadily from inside the inn. “I don’t think I doubt you.”

Kuroro steps outside, standing right in front of him. His dark eyes smolder in the sunlight as he looks at him. He looks like he wants Kurapika to understand, but how can he when he never understands what Kuroro is thinking?

“I’m not playing around with you, if that’s what you think.” His words turn gentle, soft. "I did tell you that I’d like to make you my fan, but I would be very happy if you ended up liking me as yourself, too.”

 

 

 

 

Whenever Kuroro says things like that, he has the urge to write down what he says, underline all his words so that he can read them later. He knows how Kuroro is capable of speaking bluntly and effortlessly, but there’s enough charm to his words that they don’t come off as thoughtless.

It’s difficult to understand where their relationship stands, if they’re supposed to be friends now. He knows that Kuroro isn’t the stranger he was a week ago, but now there’s an uncertainty around how he should be acting with Kuroro. He appreciates their professional relationship, even considers their potential friendship when being around Kuroro makes him comfortable enough to confide in him, but beyond that—he doesn’t want to dwell too much, lest his face starts feeling warm again.

Kuroro doesn’t seem to mind his silence, though he catches Kuroro glancing at him from time to time. They walk through the tree-lined neighborhood, beneath golden leaves that catch in their hair and scatter gently over the surface of the canal. The sky invites him to look up, endless and vast and unobstructed by high-rise buildings and sunlight glinting off its glass surfaces. White bedsheets and clothing flutter in the wind, hanging from laundry lines that extend between aged apartment buildings. Silver windchimes hang from shopfronts, singing their gentle songs in the breeze.

Along the length of the canal, past vintage teahouses and cafés, is a small shop that happens to be one of Kuroro’s favorite places to frequent. They reach the humble shop after fifteen minutes, where the sign above the wooden frame reads _Totori Silk Pudding._ As a small branch of a popular café, the shop only serves their famous crème caramel pudding.

“I am a pudding aficionado,” Kuroro declares with utmost certainty.

Kurapika doesn’t suppress his snort. Kuroro’s just strangely enthusiastic about the most mundane things, and although he’s not even a tourist anymore, he acts as though he’s coming here for the first time. “I think that’s common knowledge.”

Kuroro gives him a curious smile. “You know more about me than you let on.”

“Well, Leorio saw your Pokka Sapporo Pudding Shake commercial and proceeded to buy three boxes. He delivered one box to me. It was disgusting.” Kurapika makes a face. “Even if you made it look good, there’s something wrong about having pudding in drink form.”

He can’t imagine how many boxes Kuroro would’ve been gifted from the company, especially since he personally received a lifetime supply of Rohto Eye Drops after his last endorsement deal with them.

“I would be offended if I didn’t agree,” Kuroro says, eyes creased with humor. “But I’ve been to about fifteen pudding shops in Japan? I think this place ranks at the top.”

“Were you filming some kind of food documentary?” Kurapika asks, receiving a laugh in response. “I have high expectations now.”

“You can take my word for it, this time around.” The aproned employee greets them warmly as they enter the shop. Kuroro’s gaze catches on the display of glass jars, all different flavors from caramel to strawberry to coffee. Chestnut and pumpkin are the seasonal flavors for the month. The sign on the wall promises fresh milk from Hokkaido, high-end Okukuji eggs, aged vanilla—all to ensure the best flavor of their natural ingredients. “Which do you want?”

“No, wait,” Kurapika says, cutting in front of him. “I’ll pay for this.”

Kuroro stares at him curiously. “Hm?”

“Just let me buy you something,” Kurapika insists. “Not that it makes up for the trip or anything.”

There’s a beat of silence, before Kuroro nods.

“I appreciate it.” It’s relatively inexpensive, and yet he acts as though Kurapika’s giving him something much more. “Thank you.”

Kuroro goes for the standard custard with caramel, while Kurapika chooses coffee. The glass jars are carefully packaged, covered with gold foil and tied with red ribbons. The employee smiles as Kurapika hands over his card to pay. Given that the weather is much warmer than yesterday, they decide to sit at one of the tables outside the café.

Kuroro slides into the seat in front of him, bristling with anticipation. “You bought me pudding. Consider me charmed.”

“It doesn’t take much to win you over then,” Kurapika deadpans, but Kuroro seems to recognize the trace of fond amusement directed towards him.

Kurapika pulls on the ribbon to untie it, and unwraps the jar. He’s immediately greeted by the subtle scent of coffee and cream. Kuroro isn’t looking at him now, instead fixated on his own dessert. He could have bought Kuroro a proper lunch, but Kuroro insisted that he wanted to come here of all places.

He hopes that it’s as good as Kuroro claims, because he never really had a penchant for sweets. He sinks his plastic spoon into the whipped cream and pudding, then guides it to his mouth.

It’s has a gentle texture, like silk. Not too sweet, but not too bland either—just smooth, supple custard with a hint of coffee and vanilla cream accent. The aftertaste is pleasant, a bitter caramel that appeals to Kurapika’s tastes. 

Kuroro looks up at him expectantly. “How is it?”

“Good,” Kurapika replies, and he means it. This one word makes Kuroro’s expression brighten, and it’s curious how much he cares for his opinion even when it comes to foods.

He continues working through it, finding that he'll be able to finish eating. It’s nice to be able to spend a few moments appreciating the quiet atmosphere of the neighborhood, enjoying the taste of the foods Kuroro likes so much.

His phone vibrates with a new message notification, and he pulls it out from his pocket to check.   

>   **dr.paladiknight**
> 
> Did you survive the first night?
> 
> How’s everything coming along?

He has a lot to tell Leorio, but instead of spending time writing all of the details, he raises his phone slightly upward. It’s hypocritical to do the same thing that he chided Kuroro for, but he angles his phone toward his unsuspecting companion, concentrated on his favorite dessert, and snaps a photo.

The sound of the camera shutter interrupts their silence.

Kuroro looks up, blinking in confusion. “Did you just take a picture of me?”

“Um, I—” Kurapika’s phone slips from his grasp, but he catches it in time. “I’m sorry.”

He shuts himself up before he says anything he regrets. The guilt burns at his face.

Kuroro leans his weight on one elbow, resting his face in his hand. “Do I look good at least?”

He turns his phone to Kuroro, sharing the photo captured on his screen. Against the backdrop of the wooden storefront and golden trees, Kuroro has a spoon in his mouth, looking as though he’s enjoying this for the very first time. “Actually, I think you look like a pig.”

“Wow,” Kuroro says, laughing disbelievingly, “I don’t think I’ve heard that before.”

Kurapika gestures to the corner of his lips. “You have something there.”

Kuroro brings up a thumb to swipe at his cheek, missing the spot. It makes Kurapika slide a napkin over to him, because he has the sudden, inexplicable urge to clean Kuroro’s cheek himself. The realization terrifies him.

“Your fans would find this very cute, I think.” Kurapika clears his throat. “Should I delete the picture?”

Kuroro waves a dismissive hand, amused. “It’s fine. You can do whatever you want with it.”

“My manager asked what I was doing,” Kurapika explains lamely, “so I’m just sending this to him.”

Only a few moments after he sends the message, Leorio responds.     

> **dr.paladiknight**
> 
> This is a date, right?
> 
> I thought you were working on your music??
> 
> **kurapika**
> 
> Don’t misunderstand.
> 
> I’ve been productive. I’ll send over some samples when they’re ready.

Kuroro takes a spoonful of pudding, letting out a hum. “How’s your progress with writing?”

“It’s taking form,” Kurapika says, reminded of wet sand coalescing beneath his fingers. “I have the rough outline and draft completed, but it isn’t anything worth showing you yet. I’d like to have a better draft by tomorrow so I can give it to you. Do you need something now to start composing?”

“I’m working on some tracks to use as a foundation for when you finishing writing. Until I know what your story is, I can’t actually produce something for you.” Kurapika nods at that. “What concept are you going for?”

Kurapika's been expecting the question. Kuroro doesn’t ask for the story, but the _concept_ —as though the former is too all-encompassing that he doesn’t expect Kurapika to have figured it out by now. A part of him wants to agree, when he always felt too many things to be described with words, trying to make sense of the words he needed but didn’t have.  

He felt like the steady ebb of the waves on the shore, reaching for something he could not grasp. There were certain things that he never allowed himself to think or talk about when it came to his music, but in the amount of time he spent with Kuroro, he began to feel something forming beneath his hands, something more tangible.

He thought that working alongside Kuroro meant that writing needed to be an insurmountable task, having to work all night until his bones ached from carving out his music, trembling with the impossibility of creating something perfect, but it’s nothing like that. For the first time, he has complete reign over what kind of story he wants to share, and his chest feels so _full_ with knowing what needs to be said, like finding an answer to a question he always had. His story is something that fits him comfortably, because he’s finding closure in the decisions he made all those years ago. It’s not as terrifying as he thought it would be.

Having to arrange all of his thoughts into words, words into stories, felt like relearning his home again and what it was like to leave it. But his story doesn’t end there, representative of a halting cliff at the edge of the forest. Neither does it celebrate his career like the path up a rising mountain, nor does it fault the worst of his struggles like getting lost on the way down. It’s a path that goes full-circle, ending where the story starts.

So it’s with steadfast determination that Kurapika tells him, “The decision to leave home and what it means to return.”

Even if his words aren’t rehearsed, Kurapika refuses to stumble over them and present himself as unsure, hesitant, because this isn’t a story that’s unfamiliar to him, written by someone else. These are his own words and there is no better person to write them.

“But home doesn’t have to mean Rukuso, because a part of me belongs to Tokyo too,” Kurapika says, entirely sincere. “I’m still coming to terms with what you said—how returning home doesn’t have to be conditional. There are people I can fall back to, regardless of where I go.”

After years of believing that choosing one had to mean leaving the other, Kurapika finally understands that it never needed to be true. It feels so much more real, being able to put this into words.

His childhood in Rukuso had its soundtrack nestled in the songbirds in the trees, the water flowing from the river, the quiet lullabies of his mother as she sang him to sleep, the secrets he and Pairo exchanged as they explored the uncharted expanse of their homeland.

Life in Tokyo had its own music, familiar to him as the rush of cars through the bustling metropolitan, the pulse of neon letters from billboards illuminating the night sky, the heated cheer of fans resounding through indoor arenas, the laughs only he and Leorio could share backstage.

He has memories in both places, people who love him and people he loves—and he’s comfortable with the knowledge that he can belong to both.

He watches as a smile blooms on Kuroro’s face, the affection in its almost unconscious.

“Maybe,” Kuroro says, “you’ll find yourself leaving a piece of yourself here too.”

It’s possible, because stories are never so straightforward. There are detours too, leading to places he would never expect.

Totori is as small as it is vast, an idyllic town found at the edge of the sea with a community thriving at its heart, welcoming him as though he were coming home. Time doesn’t hold its breath here like in Rukuso, where the hours stretched throughout the days without awareness of the outside world. Nor does it rush too quickly like in Tokyo, where there was never any time to finish what he needed to do with too many burdens to bear.

Being in Totori slows things down for him, narrows his world into something smaller and more contained, regardless of what awaits him.

And it’s strange to think that in a week from now, it will be gone.

“Yes,” Kurapika answers quietly, “I just might.”

 

 

 

 

“You must be having fun,” Leorio says over the phone, and he can _hear_ the grin in his voice.

“Are you sure about that?” Kurapika counters. “Guess where we are.”

“Tell me,” Leorio urges.

Kurapika looks over his surroundings, then stops at where Kuroro’s sitting. It’s not difficult to explain, just difficult to believe. Maybe if he says it aloud, it’ll feel more real. Kuroro leans against one of the plush chairs in front of a towering wooden bookcase, book in hand. He looks like he belongs here, completely immersed in whatever he’s reading—only he’s reading a graphic novel.

Kurapika’s voice falls into a whisper. “A _manga_ museum.”

Silence answers him.

He stares blankly at several murals on the wall. The artists reinterpreted several European paintings to feature popular characters from animation, and he doesn’t know how to feel about this. At least, they’re varied in their interpretations instead of outright replicating the artwork.

“Is he,” Leorio says, unsure, “some kind of _otaku_?”

“I have no idea. Is that a bad thing?”

“It doesn’t really match his image. Sometimes he’s this charismatic playboy in a suit and tie and other times he has this bad boy concept in a leather jacket or fur coat. He undergoes through these transformations whether he wears his hair up or down.”

“Concepts don’t usually translate well to real life,” Kurapika points out, because what Kuroro’s reading happens to be a slapstick comedy series.

“Yeah,” Leorio says, holding back a laugh. “Well, you might see a new side of him.”

“Maybe.” Kurapika doesn’t say that he’s already seen different sides of him—the Kuroro who loves to eat desserts as sweet as the things he tends to say, the Kuroro who’s comfortable and quiet and at home beside the sea. He’s accepted that the Kuroro he’s come to know is more than the person he knew through music.

Sometimes, he thinks that Kuroro should be back in the city, composing on songs for himself and his group and working with people Kurapika would never be acquaintanced with. Someone who should be admired from a faraway distance.

Instead, Kuroro’s here with him, entirely accessible.

“Are you working well with him?” Leorio asks.

“I think I am,” Kurapika says. “It’s a little different, but not bad, per se. I’ll let you know as time goes on.”

At Nostrade Media, the album development process was as structured as any other entertainment company. Kurapika wasn’t allowed to attend any of the meetings when he was still a trainee, but as time went on, he was able to sit in the conference room when management reviewed Senritsu’s compositions to select the title track for his album or worked with songwriters like Basho to finish the lyrics.

On the other hand, Kuroro doesn’t seem as structured with his music. Eventually, when Kurapika returns to the city, he’ll have to spend time in Meteor Entertainment’s recording studios and practice rooms to prepare for his album and its promotions. But it’s this process of _creating_ music that isn’t as constrained as before, that Kurapika appreciates even if it isn’t as familiar to him. No longer does he have to pass his songs through gatekeepers to determine the future of his songs. He’s never known this kind of freedom before.

They’re doing much more than working around here, while Leorio explains that he’s been busy meeting with Kakin representatives to discuss the things that will extend past his album release. There will be press conferences, variety shows, interviews to attend—all the things that he never liked but always needed to do.

“Thanks for your hard work,” Kurapika says, because Leorio’s just as invested in his comeback as he is.  “I’m going to use this time to work too, so I’ll talk to you later.”

“Keep in touch,” Leorio says, not as his manager but as his friend. “I don’t want to have to be the first one to call or message you every time.”

“Yes, yes,” Kurapika promises. “Bye now.”

He decides to explore the rest of his museum as Kuroro reads. While they’re currently in the collection space where books can be removed from shelves and read freely, there are also exhibits in other sections of the museum dedicated to works from new artists as well as research. He walks past other visitors leaning against the shelves and reading on the floors to find one of the history exhibits, keen on learning more about the development of the art form.

Two young women repeatedly glance at him while he focuses on the artwork in the exhibition, flushing and smiling when he meets their eyes. At first, he thinks it’s because they recognize him. The thought dies a swift death when he realizes that the character on the wall bears a subtle resemblance to himself, blond hair and all.

Kurapika shakes his head, then goes to observe the other side. The museum is fairly small outside of its collection, so it doesn’t take long for him to go through the exhibits.

Although he’s used to visiting art history museums, this is a new experience for him, but it’s not entirely unwelcome. Nowadays idol songs are used for mainstream animation series, so he can understand why the appeal in learning more about the subject.

He ends up taking a seat at one of the café tables outside the gift shop. Since he doesn’t have his notebook with him, he works through his ideas on his phone. He slides in an earbud and opens up one of the playlists that Leorio curated for him, full of recent songs from the Ryodan. Working sends him into a quiet concentration as he pieces the fragments together, rewriting lines so that they flow into the next.

Half an hour passes before Kuroro finds him, a paper gift bag in hand.

Kurapika looks up, pulling out his earbud. “How was your book?”

Kuroro offers him a smile. “I’m very fond of the author’s humor. It’s an out-of-print series, so it’s nice that this museum has one of the original copies.” Unexpectedly, he places the bag on the table, the front of it carrying the logo of the museum. “This is for you.”

Kurapika blinks quickly in confusion. “You didn’t have to.”

“But I wanted to,” Kuroro says, beaming at him. “For the dessert earlier.”

Kurapika doesn't make a habit of accepting gifts very often. Even at his fanmeetings, he prefers receiving fanletters instead of material gifts, urging his fans to use their savings for a greater cause. But he remembers each and every thing he receives, keeping them by his desk and never tossing them out.

The tissue paper crinkles as Kurapika reaches into the bag. He pulls out a small leather-bound notebook, smaller than the one he’s been using during his time here. Tucked within its front cover are three postcards with Totori’s seascape reimagined with different Japanese painting techniques.

“I thought that you could use them to write to your family.”

“Thank you.” Kurapika’s voice comes out pleasantly surprised. “That’s very thoughtful of you. But now you’re going to make me feel as though I keep on owing you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Kuroro says with a laugh. “You never have.”

It's a very odd thing to say, when Kuroro has given him more than what he would have ever expected from him. Kuroro keeps smiling at him, and he can't fight the small smile tugging at his own mouth.

There’s no doubt that he appreciates the gesture, and he lets himself accept this without questioning it.

More than that, it relieves him when he recognizes that Kuroro seems to be in a _much_ better mood now.

 

 

 

 

By the time they return to the inn, sunset bleeds over the sky in a dramatic wash of vermillion and amber. The horizon burns as the day leaves, falling into night sooner now that autumn has settled over town.

Kuroro leaves to attend a meeting with the festival organizers, having to play the role of manager when it was his idea to get Kurapika into the concert lineup. Mito and Gon are accommodating late arrivals as he enters the lobby, and he manages a nod at Gon’s look of acknowledgment as he finds his way back to the room.

Down the hallway, Bhavimaina heads in his direction with a lightweight gym bag slung over his body. Kurapika’s prepared to greet him briefly and be on his way, but he didn’t expect him to stop right in front of him.

“Hey, Kurapika.”

He can’t exactly ignore Bhavimaina when he initiated conversation first, standing in his way as though he has more to say. He knows that he can come off as ill-mannered, but for a newcomer like Bhavimaina, he should strive to make a better impression.

“Hi,” Kurapika says, quickly glancing over Bhavimaina’s shoulder. “Heading out now?”

Bhavimaina’s dressed for working out, wearing a loose track jacket and matching sweatpants. Maybe he’s trying to find a fitness center around here, but Kurapika doubts that he’ll come across anything other than a small studio. He noticed more people around here running outdoors along the promenade and doing calisthenics in the park.

“I’m going to practice at the studio.” Bhavimaina looks around the hallway, over his shoulder. “Wanna come with?”

He thinks back to Kuroro’s mood this morning. If Kuroro were here, he certainly wouldn’t encourage him to go. While he wouldn’t express this to him vocally, it’s easy to imagine him sulking as he did earlier.

Uncertain, Kurapika tells him, “I still have some preparation I need to finish.”

Bhavimaina nods in understanding. “I’d be happy to give you a preview of my performance. Everything’s finished from the song to the choreo, and I was thinking that it’d be nice to get some feedback before the concert. I understand if you’re busy though.”

If Kurapika goes, then he would know what to expect for the concert. Although he has much more experience than Bhavimaina when it comes to the industry, this shouldn’t mean undermining Bhavimaina’s talent.

It’s not a competition, but still.

He wants to do well.

“If it won’t take too long,” Kurapika eventually says, reminding himself to send a message to Kuroro, “then I wouldn't mind coming along.”

“Cool.” There’s nothing in Bhavimaina’s face that suggests he’s pleased in the slightest, but maybe he’s just stoic by nature. “Follow me.”

They head back out into the cool evening air, and the moment they’ve walked through the streetlamp lit parking lot, Kurapika faintly regrets what he’s doing. It’s not as though Kuroro owns his time during his time here, but there’s something about Bhavimaina that clearly displeases him, even though he doesn’t know what that could be.

Perhaps, he’ll find out.

“Feedback from Kuroro would be more useful,” Kurapika says, breath fogging up in the cold. It's chillier tonight, and his collarbones are bared by Kuroro’s sweater, two sizes too large. “So I’m not sure how helpful I can be.”

“I doubt it.” Bhavimaina waves a hand to dismiss the idea. “I’ve watched you for a while, so I mean it when I say that I respect your opinion.”

“Watched me?”

“I liked your songs even before I debuted. I learned your songs for the monthly evaluations at my company, partly because Lady Oito’s a huge fan of yours,” Bhavimaina explains, rubbing at the back of his neck, “but you have this strong aura when you perform that really drew me in. So I’m honored to be performing on the same stage as you this time around.”

“Ah,” Kurapika says, faintly surprised. Apparently, there are people out there who cover his songs the same way he covers Kuroro’s songs. “The honor’s all mine.”

Because Bhavimaina seems to already know him, Kurapika asks about his satisfaction with his debut album, his experience on television programs, what he’s looking forward to with the festival. He learns that Bhavimaina actively takes part in the production of his albums and music videos, never gets asked the right questions on variety shows, and wants to eat _amezaiku_ in the form of Totori’s foxbear. He’s very serious about his music and doesn’t like spending time on variety shows—the same as Kurapika—but he understands that entertainment is just as important as music in this industry.

The studio is housed in an unremarkable stone building without windows on the first floor, and if it weren’t for Bhavimaina leading him here, he would have never known it was here. The front door unlocks with Bhavimaina’s card access.

The light flickers on the moment they step in. The scent of lacquered wood blends with the pungence of camphor, filling his nose and reminding him of all those nights spent practicing in the studio and soothing bruises on his body with pain relieving balm. A wall-length mirror runs along the front of the room and a grand piano sits at the back of the room, near the unused speakers against the wall. The space isn’t as large as the studios he’s used to dancing in, nor is it as glamorous, but there’s comfort to be found here.

Bhavimaina beckons him over to the piano. “I have something I want to show you first.”

He slides into the piano bench, and pats the empty space beside him. With a questioning look, Kurapika takes a seat next to him.

“It’s been a while since I’ve played for someone,” Bhavimaina says, rolling his shoulders, “so I hope this doesn’t sound too bad.”

Without a score in front of him, his hands settle idly over the keys. If he feels hesitation, he doesn’t show it, when composure is apparent in his posture and facial expression.

Kurapika catches a curious glint in his eyes as his gaze flickers to him, but then he begins to play. The piece starts slow, his fingers finding where they need to be, and—

Kurapika knows every beat of this song.

Out of all the songs he could play, Kurapika never imagined hearing his _own_ debut song reinterpreted by a fellow artist.

He doesn’t know if Bhavimaina understands the love in Kurapika’s song, but he listens. It builds up slowly, a warmth that spreads through the notes, something like steadfast devotion. He hears _loyalty_ and what it means to be so dedicated to someone that he can’t care for anything else.

The pace picks up now, more frantic as Bhavimaina hits quick high notes with one hand while relaxing with the other, leaving behind the slowness of the first keys. It’s clear and honest, like a crisp spring morning, but instead of playing this as gently as Kurapika would, Bhavimaina goes for urgency towards the end of the piece. Through it all, there’s a steady calm in Bhavimaina’s eyes, an understanding of what _he_ wants to play even if he doesn’t convey the intended meaning of the piece.

Hearing his own song like this is like being forced to face the shortcomings of his own performances, as though there was always something amiss but Kurapika never realized it then. At the time, he couldn’t afford to reinterpret his song at risk of sounding insincere, because love wasn't something he ever considered beyond the principle of it. But hearing this piece played this way imparts upon him the awareness that Bhavimaina has an understanding of some form of love, even if it isn’t about falling in love with someone else.

The music fades, and there’s a fleeting moment of a smile on Bhavimaina’s face when he turns to look at him. It’s gone the moment Kurapika blinks.

“That was wonderful,” Kurapika says. He has the tendency to default to criticism rather than praise, but he means the latter this time around. “I never heard my song covered before and—you did really well.”

“I wanted you to hear this,” Bhavimaina reveals. “I wanted to have worked hard enough to earn the right to play this, let alone stand on the same stage as you. Every artist has their inspirations and—you just happened to be mine.”

_Inspiring._

He finds Kurapika inspiring.

Kurapika works around the sudden dryness in his throat. “Why? There are so many other—”

“Because you never give up,” Bhavimaina answers in a quieter tone, and he says this in the present tense. “It was always hard for me, having to choose between going back to university and living a normal life, or continuing with training without any prospect of debuting. I think you’ve always been focused when it came to what you wanted, and I thought that was admirable.” He runs his fingers over the keys, but doesn’t press down on them. “I saw you perform in person, and you always gave it your all, like any of your stages could be your last. That kind of desperation was really earnest.”

 _You never give up_ , Kurapika repeats in his mind.

Bhavimaina might be right.

Nostrade left him in a liminal space with his hiatus, like a doll taken out of the box only to be put away again, but he always found himself wanting to be let out. He wasn’t going to be in top form forever, especially when idols in the industry had a time limit. He compensated with his lack of promotions by continuing to practice, always a hair's breadth away from damaging his body from overexertion. There was only so long he could keep his muscles stretched and seized impossibly tight before something gave out.

Kurapika never, ever gave out.

His mindset wasn’t as healthy as Bhavimaina would believe it to be, when all he did was hurt over and over again.

“Thank you,” Kurapika murmurs, because it’s better than saying _I’m sorry_ to everyone who has been waiting for his return. “But enough about me. Why don’t we hear your song now?”

Bhavimaina cracks his knuckles. “Sure.”

They work on setting up the sound system and connecting Bhavimaina’s phone to the speakers. Bhavimaina unzips his jacket, throwing it off himself, exposing his bare arms when he only wears an undershirt. He seems to train more than himself and Kuroro, so Kurapika’s expecting his choreography to be highly demanding and propulsive, never pausing to allow him to catch his breath.

Bhavimaina bends down to stretch as Kurapika stands by. After a few moments, he looks up to nod at his reflection in the mirror, giving Kurapika the cue to press play.

The first beat booms from the speakers. The song builds up atmospheric suspense, accumulating energy like something simmering beneath the surface before exploding into a dramatic chorus. The song’s trajectory stays on the incline the entire time, climbing and climbing as though there’s no way he can fall.

Music floods through Bhavimaina as he dances, performing as though he’s on stage instead of practicing in front of an audience of one. He watches for Kurapika’s reaction with undisguised interest as he moves, the lines of his body polished and poised. He’s a bit stiff, but he compensates with the intensity of his gestures—the emotion is there, it’s within him, but it doesn’t overwhelm the performance.

His involvement with the composition shows.

Kurapika hears it.

It’s strange to be in the position to examine for once, but when Kurapika looks at him, he sees himself in his dance—the uncompromising command that Bhavimaina holds over himself like a gun to his head, triggered at any possible mistake.

His sneakers grate against the wooden floor as the music ends. Sweat slides from his forehead to his cheek, dripping onto his shirt. His chest rises and falls as he catches his breath. “What do you think?”

“I’m not sure how a more conservative audience will react,” Kurapika says with a quiet laugh, “but it’s a very intense song. You have the strength and stamina necessary for your choreo, and while your legwork is fine, you’re too stiff around the shoulders. Try to loosen up your upper body.”

“Got it,” Bhavimaina says breathlessly. “Thanks.”

At that moment, Kurapika’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls out his phone, greeted by a message notification on the top of the screen.

>   **kurorolucifer**
> 
> Be back in half an hour. I’ll get dinner for us on the way back. +:)

Bhavimaina wipes his sweat-sheened face with the hem of his shirt. “Do you have to go now?”

Kurapika shakes his head. “It’s just Kuroro.”

“Oh,” Bhavimaina says. “You don’t have to look like you’re cheating on your wife.”

Kurapika thinks for a moment that he must have heard wrong. “Sorry?”

Bhavimaina offers him a shrug. “You look like you’re not supposed to be here. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

“That’s not—” Kurapika breathes out a resigned sigh, then drags a hand through his hair. “I think there’s some sort of misunderstanding here.”

“Aren’t you seeing Kuroro Lucifer?” Bhavimaina asks, tone assessing and gaze thoughtful. “Not that it’s my place to say anything, but I always thought that you’d be interested in someone more—genuine? Never knew he was your type.”

“I’m not seeing him,” Kurapika says quietly. He understands what’s being implied, but isn’t aware of what relationship exists between Bhavimaina and Kuroro, if it even does. “I’m just collaborating with him for my album.”

“Huh.” Bhavimaina blinks away the disbelief. Kurapika hasn’t read any of the news articles since arriving here, and he doesn’t know if he wants to. “Then, why did you choose to work with him?”

“Because,” Kurapika starts, apologetic to people like Bhavimaina who have been waiting for him, “I was worried about being forgotten. I wondered if the people who liked me in my teens would still like me now that I’m in my twenties. I wondered when I would get the chance to make my comeback, if I ever would.”

It’s not as though he can mention anything about sponsorship, when the practice is still connected to sexual favors in the industry. He’s willing to explain everything but that.

“The lack of autonomy in my music was something that frustrated me for a long time, so starting anew with an artist as experienced as Kuroro was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up. I think that working alongside him is going to give my music a different direction—something that I’ve been searching for since debut.”

Bhavimaina inhales. “Kurapika.”

Kurapika raises a curious brow and stands there with his arms folded above his chest, inclining him to continue.

“I don’t think you know what you’re getting into.” Bhavimaina releases a breath, sharp and controlled, steadying himself for what needs to be said. “Kuroro Lucifer—isn’t who you think you know. He’s a thief.”

Kurapika blinks at him, taken by surprise without any comprehension of what was said. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“ _Requiem_ wasn’t written by him.” Knowledge kindles in Bhavimaina's eyes, the kind where he knows something that Kurapika does not. “The song belonged to one of his companions before they died, but he ended up passing off their work as his own. If I were you, I’d question his songwriting abilities.”

Kurapika can’t fight the tense unraveling of unease in his stomach. _Requiem_ is from one of the Ryodan’s oldest albums, released during their early days. It’s not some forgetful B-side, but a song that most people would know from them. “I’ve never heard that before.”

“Because the controversy was buried,” Bhavimaina tells him, entirely serious. “Do you know what the news called the Ryodan? Plagiarists, thieves, copycats. They had enough connections in the media to bury it, so everyone’s forgotten about it by now.”

Kurapika’s chest feels tight, even though his heartbeat feels steady and at ease. He takes a breath and lets it out.

The tightness doesn't leave.

“I see.” His voice comes out distant, distracted. No matter what kind of scenario he runs through his mind, he can’t fathom Kuroro doing something like that. “Still, I can’t believe it.”

Bhavimaina looks at him steadily, faint concern in his gaze. “But—”

“This is the same as all the speculations around my relationship with Kuroro,” Kurapika explains, still calm, although there is warning in his tone. “I appreciate that you’re looking out for me, Bhavimaina. But there are too many rumors floating around and not enough substantial evidence, so until I hear this from Kuroro himself, I can’t believe it.”

Kurapika isn’t trying to put up his guards around him. He wants to take a well-reasoned approach to this, instead of being swayed by someone else’s story. He wants to believe that what Bhavimaina’s saying couldn’t possibly true, but if it is, then—

Kurapika will just have to deal with this himself.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Kuroro reading manga is a reference to [chapter 201](https://twitter.com/seiyunablog/status/990441647111659520) of the Greed Island arc!
> 
> This was a fairly long chapter at over 8k words.. which happens to be the longest I've written. It's definitely difficult to keep up the momentum and motivation for longer fics, but I'd love to hear what you think about this chapter. 
> 
> All of the places in this fic are referenced from real world places, so I'd love to compile my travel notes some day. Feel free to let me know if have any suggestions for future chapters or if you have questions about any of the terminology used here.
> 
> Please leave a comment! You can reach also out to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/seiyunablog) or [Tumblr](http://seiyuna.tumblr.com/).


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